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A LIFE’S LABYRINTH 


BY 


/ 

MARY E. MANNIX 

n 





NOTRE DAME, INDIANA: 

THE AVE MARIA. 


1 



The LiSRARY OF 

CONGRESS. 
Two Own £3 HeCEIv/PO 


DEC. 0 1901 


OopyqiOHT ENTRY 

. / ti — / <f o I 
CLASS CL XX c. No. 

a o q f 3 

c opy a 

Copyrighted, 1901, 

By REV. D. E. HUDSON, C. S. 


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TO THE READER. 


The story of “A Life’s Labyrinth” was in- 
tended to be a translation for The Aye Maria 
of a German romance by E. Wagner, entitled 
“Irrgange des Lebens.” But it soon became 
evident that this would not be practicable, as 
many changes would have to be made; and, lay- 
ing Wagner’s work aside, the author completed 
the story on altogether different lines. Therefore, 
while it was suggested by the German story, it 
is in no sense either an adaptation or translation, 
and may justly claim, we think, to be original. 




♦ 












A LIFE’S LABYRINTH. 


CHAPTER I. 

On a pleasant April morning in the year 18 — 
three young Englishmen, with their servants 
and guides, were traversing the road which lies 
between Athens and Corinth. He who rode first 
was Alfred, Earl of Kingscourt, a man of remark- 
able personal beauty. His regular features were 
almost severe in outline; but his dark brown eyes, 
friendly and fearless, softened the effect which 
might have been produced by the contour of his 
face. The owner of many rich acres in England 
and Scotland, which yielded him a princely 
income, he was the darling of society, angled 
for and coveted by numbers of aristocratic 
dowagers and their no less friendly daughters. 
So far his affections had remained entirely dis- 
engaged. Occupying himself with zeal in the 
various political and social questions of the day, 
his influence promised to make itself well and 
deeply felt. His companions were Bertin Rollis, 
also the younger son of an earl; and Captain 
Wilbraham, a distinguished officer of the Guards. 

“We may be glad that we have escaped the 


6 


A life’s labyrinth. 


attention of the brigands,” said Bertin, as the 
three friends rode slightly in advance of the rest 
of the party. “Still, the apprehension of danger 
has given zest to our journey.” 

“A fig for such zest!” answered Captain Wil- 
braham. “Last year, on this very road, two 
Englishmen were taken prisoner by the rascals, 
and kept in durance six long months. One of 
them died of exposure; the other, after paying 
an enormous ransom, returned home, shattered 
both in body and mind.” 

“There is not much prospect of danger,” 
remarked Lord Kingscourt. “We have reliable 
guides; the Consul said we might trust them 
entirely.” 

“The guides and banditti are usually confeder- 
ates,” said Bertin. 

“However that maybe,” returned Kingscourt, 
“I have little fear that ours will play us false, 
having been so strongly recommended and 
munificently paid.” 

At this moment the principal guide rode for- 
ward at a sharp trot. After he had passed them 
Kingscourt said : 

“I admit that Paulos is not the owner of a 
very prepossessing countenance, but you can not 
deny that he is a picturesque -looking beggar.” 

The others were silent. Meanwhile Paulos rode 
on, peering from side to side into the underbrush 


a life’s labyrinth. 


7 


which lined the road, and occasionally glancing 
backward. 

“A lonely region,” observed Captain Wilbraham 
at length. 

They were entering a narrow defile, grown with 
wild orange trees and bushes of various kinds ; 
above it high cliffs frowned menacingly down 
upon the travellers. 

Suddenly the sharp notes of a whistle pierced 
the air. They drew rein quickly, hugging the 
rocky wall. At that instant a dozen men, in 
picturesque attire, sprang from the thick under- 
brush, barring the way. They were armed to the 
teeth. Pointing their pistols at the travellers, 
they shouted: “Do not touch your weapons!” 
While the leader cried out in good English: “If 
you offer any resistance, you will be shot down 
without mercy.” 

Paying no attention to the threat, Kingscourt 
reached for his revolver. Rollis and Wilbraham 
followed his example. A quick glance convinced 
the former that the guides had betrayed them. 
Two of the servants had already thrown them- 
selves on their knees before the robbers, and 
were crying loudly for mercy. The third, that 
of Lord Kingscourt, standing close to his master, 
awaited his pleasure. 

“Four against fifteen,” said Kingscourt, allow- 
ing the hand which held the revolver to fall at 


8 


A life’s labyrinth. 


his side. “The rogues are too many for us.” 

“You are wise, my Lord,” rejoined the captain 
of the robbers, with a smile. 

Incensed as he was, Lord Kingscourt could 
not but admire the carriage and bearing ol 
the robber; his voice and manners showed 
intelligence and culture. 

“You are Spiridion?” he asked. 

“I am Spiridion,” replied the other, coldly. 
“Be kind enough to surrender into my keeping 
your purses, jewels, watches, and everything of 
value you may have about you.” 

So saying he pulled off his cap, in which the 
travellers speedily, if reluctantly, deposited the 
required valuables. 

“You have no more money?” inquired the 
robber. 

“That is all,” answered the trio with one 
accord. 

“It is not satisfactory,” continued the captain. 
“I shall therefore be obliged to retain Lord 
Kingscourt and Mr. Rollis. Wil — Wil — Wilbraham 
(barbaric name!) may go free.” 

“Why this discrimination ? ” asked Lord Kings- 
court, angrily; although he knew the reason 
perfectly well. 

“The Captain has but little money,” replied 
the robber, without hesitation, “and we need a 
messenger. Let him go hence at once to Athens ; 


a life’s labyrinth. 


9 


and if matters can not be arranged there, proceed 
without delay to England, where he will say 
that Spiridion demands a ransom of twenty 
thousand pounds for Lord Kingscourt and five 
thousand for Mr. Rollis.” Turning to Captain 
Wilbraham, he went on, gravely: “Perhaps my 
Lord will send through you a demand upon his 
bankers — ” 

“ ‘ My Lord ’ will do nothing of the kind ! ” cried 
the Earl, stepping forward. “I shall never be 
guilty of compounding a felony, even to save my 
life. Unless I am much mistaken, my government 
will take the matter in hand ; and then, my good 
Spiridion, beware ! ” 

Once more Spiridion smiled, and this time there 
was defiance in his smile. 

“Behind these rocky barriers, from the depths 
of my mountain caves, I defy the world, my 
Lord,” he answered; and his swarthy cheek, 
brown with the suns of many a campaign, took 
on a deeper hue. “Look you, gentlemen. I 
swear by all that is sacred to me, that if in three 
months’ time the ransom I have demanded be not 
forthcoming, I will send an ear from each of your 
handsome heads as a reminder to your friends; 
and if at the expiration of another month no 
attention is paid to my claims, I will send the 
two remaining ears to rejoin their fellows, with a 
right hand of each to keep them company. So 


10 


A life’s labyrinth. 


piece by piece shall you be returned to your 
English home. Do you understand ? ” 

His voice was low, his tones unruffled ; but the 
flush upon his cheek and the fire in his eye 
betrayed the depth of his resolve. 

“Your words are air,” said Lord Kingscourt, 
with a contemptuous wave of the hand. “Of 
such stuff as this are braggarts made. What say 
you, Rollis? Is it not so?” 

But before Rollis could speak, Spiridion inter- 
rupted him, and now there was anger in his voice. 

“Captain Wilbraham,” he cried, “return as 
speedily as possible to Athens, there to await 
further instructions from me ! ” 

Wilbraham looked at Lord Kingscourt, who 
slowly shook his head, but said nothing. Rollis, 
on the contrary, said, in a solicitous tone: 

“Wilbraham, if nothing else can be done, follow 
the instructions of our Greek friend. He is 
undoubtedly in the ascendency here. For my 
part, I am anxious that when my ears return to 
England I may be able to accompany them.” 

“Trust me,” replied Wilbraham, “to do all I 
can toward effecting your release.” 

“ Enough ! ” Spiridion exclaimed, turning 
Wilbraham’s horse in the direction of Athens. 
“Let me have a word with you in private, sir.” 

“Farewell!” cried the Captain, waving his 
hand. 


a life’s labyrinth. 


11 


“Stay ! ” said Kingscourt. “My servant must 
go with you.” 

“I will not leave you, my Lord! ” cried Briggs. 
“Where you go, I go also. I beseech you do 
not send me away.” 

“Faithful servant! ” said Spiridion, with a grim 
smile. “I promise you, as a reward for your 
fidelity, that if your master’s ears are dispatched 
to England, your own shall bear them company.” 
Then, turning to the Earl, he continued: “And 
now, my Lord, permit me to lead you to my 
humble retreat. I can boast neither ancestral 
castles nor the society of the great ; but you will 
learn that I have the allegiance of stout hearts, 
whose fealty I would not exchange for all the 
honors of a king. Forward, comrades!” 

Turning sharply as he spoke into a narrow 
path which led from the defile into the under- 
brush, they made a few steps onward, when 
Spiridion suddenly called: 

“Halt, gentlemen! We find it necessary to 
blindfold your eyes; so that when your ransom 
is paid, you may not use your freedom to my 
detriment. Alessandro, Luigi, bind the eyes of 
the prisoners.” 

The work was speedily accomplished, after 
which the hands of the captives were bound 
behind their backs; and, thus rendered helpless, 
the ascent of the rocky path was begun Not 


12 


A life’s labyrinth. 


a word w~as spoken. At tlie end of three 
hours a halt was made ; all dismounted and 
pursued their way on foot, still in silence. At 
the expiration of another half hour a growth 
of underbrush was pushed aside, and the robbers, 
one by one, passed through what appeared to be 
a crevice in the rock. The captives were pushed 
through by those in the rear. A few steps, and 
they entered a large cave, which led to another 
of still greater size. Then the bandages were 
removed from their eyes, the thongs from their 
hands, and, with a sigh of relief, they lifted their 
heads and looked about them. 

“A true banditti’s cave!” said Rollis to his 
friend, in a low voice. 

Kingscourt made no reply, but gazed 'keenly 
around. 

The cavern in which they found themselves was 
not only large, but also high and airy. Through 
an opening in the rear they could both see 
and hear the course of a tiny waterfall, which, 
tumbling over a large, irregular stone, disap- 
peared into a crevice beneath, where it found 
an outlet. At the farthest end of the cave a 
cheerful fire was blazing, over which a huge 
kettle was steaming. Lanterns hung from the 
rocky roof, shedding a dull light, which gave 
a weird effect to the apartment. 

“I wonder where the smoke finds exit?” said 


a life’s labyrinth. 


13 


Rollis, looking upward to the vaulted arch 
above him. 

“Wherever that may be,” answered Kingscourt, 
speaking for the first time in many hours, “you 
may be sure there is a forest above it, so that 
all vestige of it may be lost.” 

“No doubt you are admiring your surround- 
ings,” remarked Spiridion, who had been occupied 
in the background, but who now came forward. 

Neither of the young men made any reply. 

“This apartment does not constitute our entire 
establishment,” Spiridion went on. “Although 
not quite what you might desire, nor what you 
would enjoy at home, we are able to give you 
separate apartments. Nevertheless, we do not 
try to make them so comfortable as strangers 
might wish; otherwise they would no doubt 
become indifferent as to ransom. Luigi,” he 
added, with a quick gesture of the hand, “conduct 
these gentlemen to their private apartments. 
They may desire to be alone.” 

“Come! ” exclaimed the robber whom Spiridion 
had addressed. 

They followed him in silence. After traversing 
the whole length of the larger chamber, they 
reached what appeared to be a hole in the solid 
rock, divided in two, and also separated from 
the outer hall by leathern curtains. But, unlike 
the large apartment, the walls were reeking 


14 


A life's laybrinth. 


with dampness. A couple of thick rugs lay 
upon the ground. 

“ Strangers ,’ 1 said the Greek, “here you will 
sleep; those rugs will serve to keep you warm.” 

“What! on the bare ground!” cried Rollis, 
indignantly. 

“I would not put a dog in such a place,” said 
Kingscourt, peering into the gloom. 

“You need not remain here long, gentlemen,” 
said the voice of Spiridion, who had followed in 
their rear. “The sooner you comply with my 
conditions, the sooner you may return to your 
beds of eider-down. As you will observe, the 
moisture of these walls might conduce toward 
the development of any rheumatic or consumptive 
tendency to which either of you might possibly 
be inclined. But,” with a significant shrug of the 
shoulders, “what can I do? I give you the best 
I have — for strangers. What say you, gentlemen?” 

Kingscourt turned from him with an impatient 
gesture, but made no reply. 

“You are a courteous host!” observed Rollis, 
with a laugh. “I can but wish you similar 
quarters some day.” 

Spiridion laughed, turned on his heel and left 
them. 

“You will be permitted to spend your waking 
hours in the hall,” said Luigi. “Shall we return?” 

“That at least is something, for which we 


a life’s labyrinth. 


15 


should be thankful,” retorted Rollis, with a 
gloomy visage; adding as they retraced their 
steps: “Kingscourt, I fear that, unless assistance 
comes to us speedily, the end of three months 
will find us either dead or insane.” 

The Earl made no reply. 


CHAPTER II. 


The news of the capture of the Earl of Kingscourt 
caused a great sensation, not only in Greece and 
England, but through the whole civilized world. 
The intervention of the British Government was 
solicited and obtained in behalf of the prisoners; 
but as it appeared that the Grecian authorities 
were already doing everything in their power to 
ensure the capture of Spiridion and his band, as 
also the discovery of their secret whereabouts, 
nothing remained but to wait. 

Meanwhile the friends of Lord Kingscourt and 
his companion were not idle. Confident that, in 
view of the enormous ransom demanded for them, 
Spiridion would be careful they should come to 
no harm until the specified period of time had 
elapsed, those friends held themselves in readiness 
to meet the demands at a moment’s notice. But 
twenty -five thousand pounds is a large sum of 
money; and there was irritation in the thought 
that not only individuals, but the cause of justice 
and humanity, were at the mercy of banditti, 
whose removal from the face of the earth would 
be an inestimable benefit. 

To the captives, cut off as they were from all 

communication with the outside world, time 
16 


A LIFE S LABYRINTH. 


17 


dragged like lead. With health undermined by 
the damp and unwholesome atmosphere, coupled 
with distasteful food, and longing for a breath 
of the fresh air now denied them, their lot soon 
became well-nigh unendurable. Although confine- 
ment had not lessened their courage, it had shown 
them how fallacious was any hope of recovering 
their liberty, save by the payment of the stipu- 
lated ransom. 

As an incentive to the more speedy liberation 
of the prisoners, Spiridion had permitted Lord 
Kingscourt to write a couple of letters; but, 
through some unaccountable delay, Wilbraham 
had not received them until the morning of the 
day when, seeing that all other efforts were 
useless, he was on the point of returning to 
Athens with the money in hand. In company 
with two brother officers, friends of the unfortu- 
nate prisoners, he arrived at Triest just a day 
too late for the steamer it was incumbent on 
him to take if he wished to reach his friends in 
time. It was not until then that he began to 
realize the great peril of the prisoners, — a peril 
he was now powerless to avert, should Spiridion 
keep to the letter of the terms he had made on 
that fateful day three months before. 

On the other hand, the captives, gaunt, hollow- 
eyed, and depressed in mind, were also alive to 
a full appreciation of the straits in which they 


18 


a life’s labyrinth. 


found themselves; and were beginning to fear 
that some unforeseen accident had occurred which 
would precipitate, in part at least, the dreadful 
fate with which they had been threatened by 
the chief of the banditti. 

As they sat close to the fire, which was never 
extinguished in their underground abode, on the 
morning of the eventful day to which they had 
looked forward with alternate hope and fear, they 
presented a sorry spectacle. At the other end 
of the room the robbers were pursuing their 
customary avocations and amusements. The 
faithful Briggs sat on a bench near his master, 
his head sunk in his hands, dreading not his own 
fate, but that of the young Earl whom he had 
loved and served from infancy to manhood. 

“Well, Rollis,” said Kingscourt, in alow voice, 
“the three months are at an end. What if 
Wilbraham should not have reached Athens yet ? 
Do you think — ” 

“Beggin’ your pardon, my Lord!” interposed 
Briggs. “A messenger was early on the road this 
mornin’ — gone for the money. Said Luigi to 
me, i Briggs, it is money or ears to-day,’ says 
he.” 

“What audacity! What indubitable evidence 
that the guides, and even some of the government 
officers, must be in the conspiracy, when a 
messenger from such a source and on such an 


a life’s labyrinth. 


19 


errand can go and come unchallenged ! ” said 
Rollis, with a burst of indignation. 

“Yes,” replied Kingscourt, calmly, with a wan 
smile. “In England things are different. With- 
out doubt, any attempt to intercept the messenger 
would result only in annihilation for us at this 
stage. They have the best of us in this situa- 
tion.” 

“You are looking ill, Kingscourt,” observed 
Rollis, as the Earl wiped his forehead with what 
had once been a fine cambric handkerchief, but 
which now looked like a limp and soiled rag. 
Somehow, this evidence of the results of captivity 
struck a tender chord in the heart of the young 
Englishman, so strongly did it appeal to his 
sense of the force of contrast. 

“I am really physically out of sorts to-day,” 
was the reply. “It is something more than 
mental anxiety, I know. Doubtless this sort of 
life is telling on me.” 

“Courage, my Lord!” whispered Briggs, leaning 
forward as he peered anxiously into the face of 
his master. “It may be an affair of only a couple 
of hours now.” 

“Or of a couple of ears,” said Rollis, with a 
rueful attempt at facetiousness. “I do not think 
I am extraordinarily vain ; but I confess I do not 
like the prospect of having to go about the rest 
of my life with my hair hanging over the place 


20 


A life’s labyrinth. 


where my ears should be. It would look very 
odd. Eh, Kingscourt ? ” 

The Earl could not repress a smile at the 
comical picture which Rollis depicted in antici- 
pation; but poor Briggs shook his head 
mournfully at the prospect. 

At this moment there was a commotion at 
the other end of the hall. The heavy curtain 
separating the private quarters of Spiridion from 
the common room was lifted, and he stepped out 
hastily, as a man, booted and spurred, advanced 
from the entrance. 

“Well, what news, Cyril?” he said to the 
newcomer. 

“It looks bad, captain,” was the reply. “The 
Englishman can not be found in Athens.” 

“What!” exclaimed the robber chief. “Nor 
sent a substitute?” 

“No,” answered the other, briefly. “I have 
been in every hostelry in Athens, and he is not 
there, nor any one who represents him.” 

“And the Consulate?” 

“I went there, too — disguised, of course. 
Captain Wilbraham had not arrived, and no 
one in the vicinity knew aught of his move- 
ments.” 

“Then, by the Prince of Darkness,” cried 
Spiridion, “I shall execute my threat to the 
letter without further delay!” 


a life's labyrinth. 


21 


“It may be, captain,” said the robber, “that 
Wilbraham is holding back until the very last 
hour, hoping that we may be discovered. They 
are scurrying about pretty lively in this neigh* 
borhood, I can tell you. I myself — ” 

“Peace!” shouted Spiridion. “The day is near 
its close. Had Wilbraham meant to comply with 
my conditions, he would have placed himself in 
a position where you could have found him at 
its earliest dawn.” 

“One moment,” said Lord Kingscourt, rising 
from the bench where he had been a silent listener. 

“Not an instant! ” roared Spiridion. “My men 
are at hand, prompt, good and true. I will show 
your English friends that they can not trifle 
with Spiridion.” 

“But I feel confident there has been unavoidable 
delay,” continued the Earl. “Some misunder- 
standing, some defect in arrangements — ” 
“That should have be n provided against,” 
Spiridion broke in. “You need not resume your 
seat, my Lord. Luigi, Alessandro, Delos, bind 
these men; for now I shall send three ears where 
I meant to send but two, and — ” 

“What!” cried Rollis, also springing to his 
feet ; while Briggs leaned, open-mouthed and 
pallid, against the rocky side of the cavern. 
“You do not mean that you will execute that 
inhuman sentence here and now, — that you will 


22 


A life’s labyrinth. 


not give us the benefit of this one day, not yet 
ended? ” 

“That is what I mean,” replied the robber; 
and as he spoke the men about him began to 
move here and there in the execution of his 
order. Thongs were brought forth ; there was 
the glimmer and clash of knives being whetted 
for the grim office they were so soon to 
perform. 

And then, by a sudden caprice of fate, as the 
doomed men waited, expectant, fearful in the 
midst of their captors, who stepped forward, rope 
and knife in hand, to bind and maim, the door 
of the cavern seemed illuminated by a vision, 
and the clear, young, melodious voice of a girl 
r ang through the vaulted roof as she cried: 

“Spiridion, halt ! ” 

To the bandits, as well as to the prisoners, 
who stood transfixed at the sight, the appearance 
of the beautiful young girl who stood in the rude 
doorway was that of an angel. Tall, fair and 
maidenly, with a wealth of golden hair falling 
in two heavy plaits below her waist, there was 
an air of dignity about her which at once stamped 
her as a child of noble lineage. She wore the 
national Greek costume, which served further to 
enhance her remarkable beauty. She might have 
been nineteen years of age, scarcely older. In 
spite of her address, her appearance was that 


A life’s labyrinth. 


23 


of an English girl ; and she had spoken in English 
as though it were her native tongue. 

Spiridion was surprised and agitated; while 
the murmurs of his band, as they looked at one 
another with indignant astonishment, boded no 
good to the fearless girl who stood in their midst. 

“You here, lady!” exclaimed the robber chief, 
quickly regaining his self-control. “How and 
why did you discover our retreat?” 

“How?” she replied. “By infinite toil, and 
through many devious ways. Why? To save, 
if not too late, these unfortunate prisoners.” 

“ What do you know of them ?” asked Spiridion, 
with a menacing frown. 

“Naught but what all the world is saying,” 
answered the girl. “As you must be well aware, 
Athens is ringing with their story. We in Corinth 
know it equally well. I have watched and waited 
for sight of you this many a day, Spiridion, 
trusting that, at my request, you would redeem 
the solemn promise made to me not many 
months ago; but all in vain. To-day, hearing 
the dreadful news that their expected friend had 
not arrived with the ransom, I set forth, with a 
prayer on my lips and the fire of hope burning 
in my heart; and, though many a time I was 
tempted to return, I still pressed on. Oh, it was 
a higher power than chance that threw me in 
the track of your messenger, Spiridion, scarce 


24 


A life’s labyrinth. 


an hour ago! I knew you would have sent a 
messenger, and I watched for him, hidden behind 
the underbrush near the defile. Disguised though 
he was, I knew him; for, you remember, it was 
he who—” 

“ Yes, yes !” interrupted the bandit. “ It matters 
not, lady, how you came, now that you are here. 
Say, do you know, daring girl, what is the 
penalty of such temerity as yours?” 

“Nay, Spiridion,” she replied, as fearlessly as 
before. “Y"ou can not frighten and you will not 
fail me; for I have your solemn promise, and I 
do not doubt your honor.” 

“And what do you ask of me?” inquired the 
robber chief. 

“Freedom for these men,” she replied, indicating 
the captives with a wave of her hand. 

Spiridion shook his head, while a low, signifi- 
cant murmur went through the group surround- 
ing him. 

The girl advanced a step nearer. 

“Spiridion ! ” she cried, drawing from her bosom 
a long golden chain, to which was attached a 
silver reliquary in the form of a cross, together 
with a tiny statuette of Our Lady, also of silver, 
— “Spiridion, did you not swear, by the fragment 
of the True Cross contained in this reliquary, and 
by the image of Her through whose intercession 
you may yet find mercy, that if the time ever 


a life’s labyrinth. 


25 


came when I should wish to ask a favor at your 
hands, there was nothing in your power you 
would not grant me ? ” 

“She speaks the truth,” said the robber, with a 
peculiar, apprehensive glance at his companions. 
“I did so swear — but now? The time, the place, 
the circumstances! Betrayal, ruin, may be the 
end of this, my lady,” he added, once more 
addressing her. “Are you aware that I am 
responsible to my followers for their personal 
safe - keeping ? that a ransom of twenty -five 
thousand pounds is at stake? that these cap- 
tives, if released, will no doubt do all they can 
to throw us into the clutches of the law?” 

“For the last I can not promise,” said the girl, 
in the same fearless tone she had hitherto 
assumed. “Surely that would be but natural — 
and right. You know too well, Spiridion, no 
honest Christian could consider the question of 
the money but as an extortion. And it should 
not be necessary for me to declare that I will 
not reveal the secret of this hiding-place. For 
the rest it is very simple. You have made 
me a solemn promise. I am here to exact its 
fulfilment.” 

“But what of these?” he asked, again pointing 
to his companions. “ What if they should protest 
against the surrender of such a prize?” 

“Spiridion,” cried the girl, “you but trifle now ! 


26 


a life’s labyrinth. 


There never was a crowned king with more abso- 
lute control of his subjects than you have of this 
otherwise lawless band. It is unworthy of you 
thus to seek shelter behind their voiceless protest. 
You know that your will is their irrevocable 
law. ” 

“Comrades,” said the bandit, turning to the 
swarthy, picturesque group now standing 
shoulder to shoulder at his left, — “comrades, this 
lady is the good Samaritan, who, finding me 
wounded and bleeding by that unlucky fall some 
time ago, took me in, gave me shelter, and bound 
up my wounds. Under her gentle care I soon 
recovered; and, while taking care to conceal my 
identity, I made the promise she now comes to 
claim. Later, when captured and on the way to 
prison, glancing at a window, I recognized her, 
and saw that she knew me also. It was after my 
escape, when, disguised as a beggar, I asked and 
received charity at her hands, that I renewed 
the promise of which she has reminded me. 
Therefore, I am doubly her debtor; she has 
my pledge. What say you?” 

“Spiridion has never yet broken his solemn 
word,” answered Constantine, his brother; “and 
shall he break it now?” 

“No! no! no!” cried the others, in one voice. 

“It is well,” said Spiridion, with a grim smile. 
“My lady, do you swear, as once I did, by that 


A life’s labyrinth. 


27 


sacred relic, by the image of God’s Mother, never 
to betray, whether under duress or persuasion, 
the secret of this cavern?” 

“I do swear it,” said the girl, raising her eyes 
to heaven, and solemnly clasping her hands, 
which held the sacred relics. 

“It is enough!” said Spiridion. “Luigi, Ales- 
sandro, unbind your prisoners. Constantine, 
Delos, join the others in leading them forth, 
conveying them to the spot where they were 
captured. From thence they can easily find their 
way to Athens.” 

Without waiting for a response, the chief 
abruptly turned away, and passed beyond the 
curtain of his own apartment. 

Five minutes had not elapsed before the convoy 
was on its way. As they passed through the 
narrow crevice in the rock which led into the 
open, the prisoners, on whom strict silence had 
been enjoined, drew a long, fresh, grateful breath. 
Once more they felt the soft and kindly evening 
breeze upon their faces. 

“One word,” said Lord Kingscourt, holding 
out his hand in the direction of the guard. “I 
wish, in behalf of my companions as well as 
myself, to thank the Heaven-sent messenger who 
has this day preserved us from a fate almost 
worse than death.” 

“Silence!” muttered the leader, in a deep 


28 


a life’s labyrinth. 


whisper. “Would you betray us? If so, your 
lives shall pay the forfeit on the spot.” 

“And shall we not even learn the name oi 
her who — ” 

“Silence!” once more repeated Constantine, 
roughly pushing the Earl forward, bringing him 
in close proximity to his fair deliverer, who had 
preceded them along the path. 

Whatever might have been the young girl’s 
wishes, she dared not speak in the face of so 
positive a command ; but as the silent procession 
filed past her, her eyes beamed with a glow of 
surprise and pleasure as she saw upon the little 
finger of Lord Kingscourt’s left hand a circlet 
of black pearls divided at regular intervals b}* 
diamonds. It was a Rosary ring. 


CHAPTER III. 


At the southern extremity of the Gulf of Lepanto, 
not many miles from Corinth, there stood in a 
secluded spot a modest villa. But its broad 
verandas overlooked both bay and mountains; 
and, embowered in trees and shrubbery as it 
was, nothing could be more ideally perfect for a 
quiet, beautiful home. It was reached from the 
high-road through a deep and narrow valley; 
this road, however, was seldom used by the 
proprietor, who much preferred to communicate 
with the town by water. Well -cultivated 
orchards, containing figs, olives, oranges, and 
mulberries, bore testimony to the superintendence 
of the owner, as well as the thrift of the laborers, 
whose cottages, at a considerable distance from 
the house of the landlord, formed a little village 
in themselves. 

The owner of this secluded paradise was 
a foreigner; but whether an Englishman or 
American was unknown to the people among 
whom he lived. He had come to the neighbor- 
hood about fifteen years before, accompanied by 
a little girl of perhaps five years of age. During 
all that time he had lived entirely apart from 
the world, receiving no visitors, and holding 

2fl 


30 


a life’s labyrinth. 


intercourse only with those with whom business 
affairs rendered it necessary. He called himself 
Mr. Strange, though the people about him 
changed the name to the more familiar one of 
Haffo. He soon learned to speak Greek fluently, 
as did also his daughter. Both wore the national 
costume ; but the interior of the house was 
fashioned and furnished after the English plan, 
and the education of the girl had been con- 
ducted altogether in English. They were Roman 
Catholics. 

It was twilight on the evening of the eventful 
day when Lord Kingscourt and his companions 
had been rescued from the robbers. Mr. Strange 
was restlessly pacing up and down the quiet 
veranda, — now pausing to gaze at the bay, now 
looking back anxiously at the mountains. He 
was still in the prime of manhood — not more 
than forty -five or six, — tall and imposing in 
appearance, with a serious, earnest face, which 
was more than ordinarily attractive. Hair black 
as night intensified the pallor of his brow, from 
which looked out a pair of dark blue, penetrating 
eyes, of a singularly frank yet melancholy expres- 
sion. It was but natural to imagine that sorrow 
or misfortune of some kind had driven this man* 
born to be a peer among his fellows, to the 
seclusion of this unworldly spot. 

The shadows continued to gather over the 


a life’s labyrinth. 


31 


landscape, the white shimmer of the waves 
changed to silver beneath the light of the rising 
moon, and still the anxious watcher continued 
his impatient walk. At length he exclaimed: 

“She does not come! What can have detained 
her? I fear, in my mistaken sense of isolation 
here, I have given her too much liberty.” 

Just then the sound of a horse’s hoofs was 
heard approaching, and immediately afterward 
a young girl appeared in view. It was the 
heroine of the day’s adventure, mounted on a 
swift -stepping pony, which paused at the gate. 
Hurriedly alighting, and tapping her pony play- 
fully, after which it galloped off to its stall, she 
tripped up the steps of the veranda and was 
clasped in her father’s arms. 

“Here I am at last!” she said. “Have I kept 
you waiting for tea?” 

“I have been very uneasy, my darling,” he said, 
as he imprinted a kiss on her fresh, young cheek. 
“I fear we shall have to discontinue these lonely 
rides, Alice. What if some of the banditti, who 
are so active just now, were to meet and lay 
hands on my daughter?” 

“0 papa!” she answered, with a gay little 
laugh, — but her face flushed. 

“Go now and get ready for tea,” he said, 
turning toward the dining-room, where she soon 
rejoined him. 


32 


A LIFE S LABYRINTH. 


It was a pleasant room. An Englishman 
suddenly coming upon it might have thought 
it an illusion, so like it seemed to home; but 
the foreign fruits, goat’s milk, and cheese were 
reminders that the dwellers in this comfortable 
spot had been transplanted. 

The meal over, Mr. Strange took his daughter 
by the hand, and, lifting the heavy portiere which 
separated dining-room and salon , he led her to 
the piano. 

“Sing to me, child,” he said. “I am a little 
sad to-night, and I long to hear the sound of 
your happy voice.” 

The young girl at once obeyed him. After 
singing several Scotch and English ballads with 
much expression, she still remained at the piano, 
idly running her hand over the keys. 

“Alice,” said her father at length, from the 
divan where he lay in the darkness, “come and 
sit beside me. I want to talk to you.” 

“Yes, papa,” she replied, drawing a low foot- 
stool to the couch, and leaning her head against 
his shoulder. 

“Where have you been to-day?” he continued. 
“You are always so eager to relate to me your 
little adventures, and to tell what has befallen 
you during your ride, that I fear something 
unusual occurred this afternoon. I feel it in the 
air; your very silence is significant, my pet.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


33 


“How clever you are, papa dear!” she answered 
gaily. “One could not long conceal anything 
from you if one wished. But I did not wish. 
I merely intended to wait until we should be 
entirely alone, and could speak without interrup" 
tion. At tea, with a servant coming and going, 
one can scarcely be confidential. I had a strange 
adventure to-day, papa.” 

“Nothing disagreeable, I hope,” said her father. 

“No — ” she replied, with some hesitation, — 
“not exactly; for the outcome of it was all that 
my heart could wish, by far exceeding my hopes. 
And yet, when I think of it now, I wonder at my 
own boldness. Papa, to-day I saw Spiridion.’’ 

“Spiridion!” echoed her father, sitting erect, 
and laying one hand upon her shoulder, while 
with the other he turned her face toward him. 
“Alice, my darling, you did not meet him face 
to face?” 

“Yes, papa, I did; and, what will surprise you 
more, I sought him.” 

“Sought him, Alice! Where?” 

“In his own mountain fastness, — in the cave 
where he has so long succeeded in hiding from 
his enemies. I saw him there, and talked wdth 
him, papa.” 

“Child, what has come over you? Are you 
dreaming or are you insane?” 

“Neither, papa,” said the girl, looking into her 


34 


A life’s labyrinth. 


father’s eyes. “Will you let me tell you the story 
in my own way?” 

“When did you do anything save in your own 
way, spoiled child?” replied her father. “But I 
doubt whether hereafter my way will not have 
to be considered also. Go on: I am impatient 
to hear what you have to say.” 

“Papa,” she resumed, after a pause, “for the 
past few days my heart has been full of the 
story of the poor Englishmen who were captured 
by Spiridion three months ago. I did not speak 
to you about them, for I know that any allusion 
to England or its people always distresses you. 
Therefore I kept silent. But last night when I 
retired to rest my mind was so occupied with 
their misfortunes that I could not sleep. It is 
well known that Spiridion is implacable when 
thwarted ; and when I read in the Athens papers 
of yesterday morning that the messenger who 
had been sent to England had not yet arrived, 
I feared for those poor men, whom Spiridion had 
threatened with mutilation if the ransom should 
be delayed a day beyond the appointed time. It 
was then and there, in the silence of the night, 
that I felt myself impelled to do something for 
their rescue ; and so strong was the impulse that 
it seemed to me almost like a heavenly command. 
I arose this morning with the determined purpose 
of searching for the retreat of the robbers; and 


a life’s labyrinth. 


35 


in order to be successful in this, I made use of 
a plan which suggested itself to my mind, and 
which was indeed the means by which I attained 
it.” 

“Brave but reckless girl!” said her father. 
“You have agitated me more than I could ever 
tell. What rashness!” 

“Papa,” she continued, calmly, “there is no 
cause for alarm. All is well over. No harm has 
been done me, and I am sitting here in my 
accustomed place beside you.” 

“Yes,” he asserted, pressing her hand tightly 
in his. “What you say is true; I am thankful 
that it is so. But proceed with your strange 
story.” 

“You remember, papa,” she went on, “that 
Spiridion swore to grant me any favor I might 
ask? ” 

“Yes, I remember it,” he replied; “and I have 
always regretted the mistaken charity that 
brought him across this threshold.” 

“Papa,” she said, “whatever comes, the charity 
that assists the helpless and afflicted can never be 
mistaken. So you taught me many years ago, 
and I have never forgotten it.” 

“Well!” he said. “And what more?” 

“Remembering that promise, I set out at noon 
to-day, believing that Cyril, who visited him 
here, and seemed to be his most faithful and 


36 


A life’s labyrinth. 


trusted messenger, would probably be sent to 
Athens in quest of the delayed ransom. I was 
right; for, after lingering in the neighborhood of 
the defile which has so long been reported to be 
the key to the hiding-place of the robbers, I saw 
him riding in hot haste from Athens. Fastening 
the pony at some distance from the road, I hid 
in the underbrush, and followed him until he 
came to a crevice in the rock, not more than 
half a mile distant.” 

“Followed him! 0 my child!” cried Mr. 
Strange, in a voice of agony. 

“Yes, papa. And when he had passed through 
the crevice, I stole after him, — first through a 
small cave, then into a larger one, where stood 
Spiridion and his band, just in the act of muti- 
lating the unfortunate men, who were blindfolded 
and bound with thongs.” 

“And what followed?” breathlessly asked her 
father. 

“I lost all sense of fear in my eagerness to do 
something for the captives. ‘ Halt, Spiridion ! ’ 
I cried, thinking only of the great danger they 
were in, and the oath he had sworn to me. After 
some protestation, I convinced him that his 
honor was involved, that he owed me their 
lives; and finally he allowed them to go free.” 

“And you, — did you speak with them or see 
them ! ” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


37 


“ I saw them — yes, but did not notice them 
particularly, with the exception of one, Lord 
Kingscourt, who stood nearest me. He was tall 
and very handsome.” 

“And where are they now?” 

“They went on to Athens.” 

“And Spiridion allowed you to depart without 
threatening to harm you?” 

“He made me swear never to reveal the hiding- 
place, which I did without the slightest scruple 
of conscience. I followed in the rear of the 
departing prisoners, left the convoy outside the 
entrance, found my pony, and hurried home as 
quickly as I could. Now you know the reason 
of my late return.” 

“My dear child!” said Mr. Strange. “What 
you have done to-day will probably change the 
whole course of our lives. Whatever he may have 
promised, Spiridion will repent his word. He will 
no longer feel secure in his retreat. And if not he, 
at least some of his followers, will doubt and fear 
us. Their next move, I make sure, will be to 
obtain possession of your person. Never again 
shall I feel at ease in this secluded spot, where we 
have dwelt so peacefully these fifteen years. Ah! 
dear one, you will live to regret your angelic 
charity.” 

“Never, papa ! ” cried the girl, clasping her arms 
about his neck. “Not even if you should feel 


38 


a life’s labyrinth. 


bound to leave this place, which has been the 
only home I have ever known, could I regret 
what I have done to-day. Think of the conse- 
quences if Spiridion had carried out the cruel 
plan he had conceived! Not death perhaps, but 
mutilation, would have been the fate of the 
doomed men.” 

He stooped and kissed her forehead. 

“My darling,” he murmured, bitterly, “sorrow 
has made me very selfish, and suffering has 
unmanned me. I think only of the consequences 
to you— to us.” 

“Papa,” she said, wistfully, “would it not 
be better if we could go away from here, — to 
England, for instance?” 

“Alice,” he replied, almost sternly, “this is the 
first time in your young life you have spoken of 
England; let it be the last. I hate the sound of 
the word. But there are other lands as fair as 
this, my child, that will afford us a refuge, now 
that Spiridion has us in his cruel power.” 

“Papa,” said the girl, “Spiridion may be all 
that is bad — indeed we know he is, — but his 
conduct with regard to these prisoners has shown 
that he has a strong sense of honor. I have 
no fear that he will ever molest us.” 

Her father shook his head mournfully as he 
replied : 

“I am overwhelmed by it all, my daughter: 


a life’s labyrinth. 


39 


your extraordinary resolve ; the courage that led 
you to undertake it; the facility with which that 
haunt, so long hidden from the authorities, in 
spite of the most rigorous search, has been 
revealed to you. The hand of Fate seems to be 
here.” 

He withdrew from her clinging arms, and once 
more stretching himself upon the divan, turned 
his face to the wall. At that moment some one 
tapped at the door. 

“Come in!” said Alice, knowing that only one 
of the household would seek admission here. 

The housekeeper entered. 

“Master, Miss Alice,” she said, “there is a sick 
man at the door. It is one of the Englishmen 
who escaped this afternoon from the cave of the 
bandit Spiridion. Heaven defend us! it must be 
very near our door.” 

“What say you, Nestoria?” cried Mr. Strange, 
springing to his feet. “How do you know this ? ” 

“The servant of the gentleman, who is with 
him, told me,” she replied. “After they left the 
cave of the robbers, the gentleman, already ill, 
could not proceed to Athens. The other went 
thither, but the sick man, with his servant, turned 
back, hoping to obtain shelter somewhere in this 
vicinity. Losing their way, they wandered here. 
The man is so ill that his servant was obliged to 
support him on his horse. What shall be done? ” 


40 


A life’s labyrinth. 


Alice looked at her father. His attitude ex- 
pressed the deepest dejection, but she knew him 
too well to fear that he would turn a sick man 
from his door. So she said to the servant, with 
the promptitude habitual to her: 

“Nestoria, have the sick gentleman brought in 
at once. Prepare a bedroom, and see that he is 
well cared for. If necessary, summon a physician. 
See also that the servant has a bed in his master’s 
room, should attendance be required. And say 
to the gentleman,” she continued, once more 
glancing at her father, who had not moved during 
her speech, “that my father will wait upon him 
very soon.” 

“All shall be done, Miss, as you have directed,” 
said the woman, respectfully, as she withdrew. 

Then followed the sound of heavy footsteps, 
mingled with that of unfamiliar voices. The girl 
sat looking at her father, who now began to 
stride to and fro with long, impatient steps. At 
length he spoke, lifting his eyes to Heaven with a 
gesture of despair. 

“It is the hand of Fate!” he cried, — “the hand 
of Fate, against which it is vain to struggle. For 
years I have feared this; it has made my days 
anxious, and my nights sleepless. Discovery and 
ruin have overtaken me. 0 Almighty God ! when 
the long -dreaded blow shall have fallen, who will 
protect my innocent child?” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


41 


“ Father! father!” pleaded the girl, “do not 
grieve thus. Whatever may be your sorrow, 
whatever the trouble or misfortune that has 
driven you from your home and friends, oh, let me 
know it! Let me share it with you. I am no 
longer a child; tell it to me, I beseech you!” 

Her father clasped her hands in his, and, gazing 
mournfully into her eyes, he strained her to his 
heart. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Meanwhile Lord Kingscourt had been taken to a 
large, well -furnished room on the other side of 
the house. It seemed to him incredible to find 
himself once again not only under a hospitable 
roof, but surrounded by all the comforts to 
which he had been accustomed. After Briggs 
had undressed and put him to bed, he lay for 
some time with his eyes closed; the pain which 
had racked his limbs all day having been soothed 
by the gentle ministrations of his servant, and 
the change from all the horrors of the past three 
months. Briggs moved noiselessly about the 
room, once more at home in his own proper 
avocation; while his master, lazily opening his 
eyes, followed him with a grateful and contented 
glance from place to place. 

“Where are we, Briggs?” he asked at length, 
as the man approached the bedside. 

“In the most secluded spot in all Greece, if not 
in the whole world, my Lord,” was the reply. 
“I am told the estate belongs to a rich Greek.” 

“So it would seem,” said the Earl, glancing 
about at the beautiful appointments of the room. 
“And yet, Briggs, there is an English air about 
everything, it seems to me.” 

42 


a life’s labyeinth. 


43 


Before the servant could reply, a knock came to 
the door, and the housekeeper quietly entered, 
bearing a tray containing a steaming pitcher and 
a large tumbler. 

“I have brought you a strengthening draught, 
sir,” she said. “I trust you will permit your 
servant to administer it to you. I have used it 
with excellent effect for many years whenever my 
master or young mistress has suffered from a cold. 
After a little I will fetch you something to eat.” 

The Earl expressed his thanks, and lost no time 
in partaking of the draught, which he greatly 
relished. Supper followed, which he ate with con- 
siderable appetite. When the housekeeper came 
in to take the tray she announced that her master 
would be pleased to visit his guest, if the latter 
found it convenient. Lord Kingscourt having 
expressed his pleasure, the woman departed. Not 
many minutes elapsed before the door again 
opened, and the Earl was face to face with his 
host. It needed but a look to convince Lord 
Kingscourt that this was no ordinary man; nor 
was he long in coming to the conclusion that, 
in spite of the Greek costume he wore and the 
language he spoke, he was a countryman of his 
own. 

“You are welcome to my home and all it can 
offer,” said the host, taking the Earl’s hand. 
“I am but a poor recluse, leading a dull life,— at 


44 


a life’s labyrinth. 


least so it must seem to you. But such as it is, 
I gladly share it with you, with but one request : 
that, when you leave this spot, you will endeavor 
to forget both my name and existence.” 

The light from the single lamp was dim, but 
as he spoke the Earl could see the stern and 
handsome features soften and the lips quiver; 
and there was more than ordinary kindliness in 
the strong pressure of the hand that held his 
own. 

“ I thank you, sir !” he replied, heartily. “ I shall 
accept your hospitality as it has been offered, and 
shall endeavor to comply with your wishes in as 
far as I am able; but it is a most ungrateful 
heart that can, even if it would, banish the 
memory of benefits conferred.” 

The elder man smiled sadly. 

“You are not yet old enough to have grown 
cynical,” he said. “But we will not speak of 
that. I advise you to do in all things as 
my housekeeper, Nestoria, directs. She is very 
skilful in sickness.” 

Kingscourt promised to follow the directions 
of the housekeeper, and Mr. Strange took his 
departure. 

The hour was now late, and the intense pain 
in Lord Kingscourt’s head and limbs having 
returned, Nestoria, at his own request, gave him 
a sleeping potion, which had the effect of mak" 


a life’s labyrinth. 


45 


ing Him rest comfortably until morning. The 
next day his limbs were swollen, and the house- 
keeper pronounced his complaint a rheumatic 
fever, which she feared it would take a month 
to cure. This news filled the Earl with dismay; 
but he faithfully followed her prescriptions, with 
the result that, while he lay perfectly helpless 
and had many hours of suffering, he felt himself 
to have been fortunate indeed in having found 
such an asylum. 

Two days passed ; nothing had been heard from 
Rollis, which caused the Earl some uneasiness. 
The housekeeper had brought him word of the 
indisposition of her master, who had not left 
his room since the night of the Earl’s arrival. 
On the evening of the second day, tired of lying 
in bed, Lord Kingscourt had asked his valet to 
prop him up in an easy-chair, from which he could 
have a view of the garden beneath his window. 
He had not been long seated thus when he saw 
a young and graceful girl flitting to and fro 
among the roses, her hands laden with flowers. 
There was something charming in her movements; 
evidently she was the daughter of his host. From 
the obscurity of his position he could see her 
without being seen, and it was plain she was 
unaware of being observed. She wore a white 
gown, fashioned in the native style; a crown of 
golden hair surmounted her well -shaped head; 


46 


a life’s labyrinth. 


and as she passed from one rose-bush to another, 
from time to time depositing her flowers in a 
broad, low basket which lay on the ground, 
Kingscourt thought her one of the loveliest 
creatures he had ever seen. After she had passed 
from his view, he began, by an association of 
ideas, to wonder as to the identity of the young 
girl who had so heroically rescued him and his 
companions from the robbers. It gave him a 
pang of keen regret to think that probably he 
would never see her again. Not for a moment 
did he imagine that she and the bright, beautiful 
creature he had seen in the garden were the same. 

Presently the housekeeper came in with his 
supper; Briggs following with a great bunch of 
roses. 

“Thanks for these beautiful flowers!” said the 
Earl, hoping that Nestoria might say something 
of her who had gathered them. Yet she did 
not, and his delicacy would not permit him to 
say more. 

When he was again left alone, he lay watching 
the moon rise slowly behind the mountain- top, 
of which he could catch a glimpse from the 
comfortable heap of pillows piled up about him. 
Half an hour passed ; the moonlight was already 
tracing soft, silvery lines upon the floor; he was 
sinking into a doze, from which the sound of a 
voice aroused him. In an instant he was wide 


a life’s labyrinth. 


47 


awake — alert, surprised, pleased beyond measure. 
It was the voice of his deliverer, and at once he 
realized that it was she whom he had seen that 
afternoon in the garden. 

“Papa,” she was saying, “I am so glad you 
are able to be out again. I am afraid it is the 
coming of these strangers that has upset you — ” 

“Sh ! ” replied her companion. “Some one may 
hear you, Alice.” 

They passed on. Kingscourt heard no more; 
but the discovery he had made had such an effect 
upon him that when Briggs returned to prepare 
him for the night, he at once summoned Nestoria, 
fearing that his master had an access of fever. 
Hardly had the housekeeper entered the room 
when a commotion was heard outside — the sound 
of men’s voices, the clank of horses’ hoofs, — and 
Mr. Strange entered, accompanied by Mr. Rollis 
and a physician from Athens. 

“Why, this is bad, Kingscourt!” said Rollis, as 
the friends clasped hands. “I surely had hoped 
to see you convalescent, though deeming it a 
wise precaution to bring a physician.” 

“I have suffered a good deal,” replied Kings- 
court. “And my mind has not been easy about 
you since we parted. What detained you?” 

“Waiting for this particular ‘leech,’ as they call 
him in Athens; and he is a leech for slowness, 
I assure you. But it seems he had a case he could 


48 


A life’s labyrinth. 


not leave. Now that he is here, I would like 
to remove you at once.” 

After a hurried examination, the doctor 
announced that Kingscourt was suffering from 
a severe attack of rheumatic fever, and must 
remain where he was for the present, if Mr. 
Strange would be so kind as to extend his 
hospitality. 

“What!” exclaimed Rollis. “Must remain 
where he is ! Can he find good attendance here ? ” 

Mr. Strange now stepped forward, and much 
to the discomfiture of Rollis, said in English : 

“I can assure you, sir, and I think Dr. Hilarion 
will agree with me, that Nestoria, my house- 
keeper, is an excellent nurse. Your friend will 
lack no attention. My house and all that is in 
it are at his service while he chooses to remain.” 

“I beg pardon, sir!” said Rollis, with the 
characteristic bluntness of an Englishman. “I 
had no idea that you were a fellow-countryman. 
Of course that puts everything in a different light; 
though I very much dislike to learn that Kings- 
court is so ill.” 

Mr. Strange bowed. The Doctor was speaking 
with the Earl in a low voice. Presently he 
engaged in conversation in Greek with the host, 
and Rollis turned to his friend. 

“Old fellow,” he began, after a moment’s 
hesitation, “I fear it looks like desertion, but I 


a life’s labyrinth. 


49 


can not see my way to staying with yon. I had 
hoped that you could have been moved, and that 
we might return together at once to England. 
Evidently you are in no condition to go. As for 
me, I must go. I have just received word that my 
mother is almost at the point of death through 
anxiety. My father insists that I return at once.” 

“Go, of course,” answered Kingscourt. “There 
*s nothing else to be done. I shall get on very well 
here. The host is a gentleman, the nurse excellent 
in every respect. I consider myself very fortunate 
in having found such a haven. It is much better 
than having to remain in Athens until I recovered.” 

“Well, there seems to be no help for it,” said 
Rollis. “This Mr. Strange— who is he, by the 
way?” he continued, glancing in the direction of 
that gentleman, still conversing with the Doctor. 

“I know no more than yourself,” answered 
Kingscourt. “I feel certain he has a history, 
however. Still,” he added, with the native 
courtesy of a true gentleman, “that does not 
concern us.” 

“You are right,” said Rollis. “I believe I am 
leaving you in good hands.” 

“Is there no news of Wilbraham?” asked the 
Earl. 

“None,” was the reply. “I hope the poor fellow 
has not fallen into bad hands. I can not think 
for a moment that he did not do his best.” 


50 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“Nor I,” added the Earl. 

“Now, my dear sir,” said the physician, 
advancing to the bedside, “here you will be 
well taken care of ; and, though your convales- 
cence may be slow, I do not think it will be 
necessary for me to come again. I shall leave 
some medicine, which Nestoria and your servant 
will administer, if needed. You will probably 
have some bad days before you are on your feet 
again; but, with care and patience, all will be 
well.” 

“I beg that you will not set down my non- 
appearance in your chamber during the last two 
days to the account of indifference,” said his 
host, with a kindly smile. “I have not left my 
room since I saw you before until this evening.” 

“ I assure you, sir, I have had no such ungrateful 
thoughts,” answered the Earl, extending his hand. 
“Your housekeeper informed me that you were ill. 
I hope you are feeling much better.” 

“Thank you!” replied Mr. Strange. “I am 
quite well again this evening.” 

He then withdrew, accompanied by the 
physician ; and the friends were left alone. 
Kingscourt soon became restless. Rollis refrained 
from questioning him as to whether he had 
learned aught of the young girl who had so 
happily come to their assistance three days 
before. And, though usually very confidential 


a life’s labyrinth. 


51 


with his friend, and though the matter would 
seem to be of equal interest to both, Kingscourt 
felt no inclination to speak of the one subject 
now uppermost in his mind — the discovery that 
he had made that evening. 

When they parted for the night, it was with the 
understanding that Rollis would be on the road 
long before the Earl was awake in the morning. 
After he had gone, the house grew very still. 
Briggs came in softly; and, thinking his master 
asleep, went out again to make preparations for 
the night, and to take some last instructions from 
Rollis concerning him. 

But it would need a potion to soothe Kings- 
court’s tired nerves and busy brain that night. 
The discovery he had made, the coming and going 
of Rollis, combined with the incessant and often 
sharp pain in his limbs, were potent factors in 
keeping him awake. As he lay silently thinking, 
he became aware of voices in the direction of the 
head of his bed, which was placed in the centre of 
the room, not quite touching the wall. It needed 
but a moment to assure him that they were those 
of Mr, Strange and his daughter. He at once 
conjectured that they were in the next apartment, 
and that the door between the two rooms had in 
some manner become open. It was impossible for 
him not to hear their conversation ; for even if he 
had made an effort to put his hands to his ears he 


52 


a life’s labyrinth. 


could not have done so, owing to the pain and 
helplessness of his arms. 

“ Dearest papa, ” the girl was saying, “you are 
looking very ill. What did the Doctor say ? ” 

“My darling, I did not consult him about 
myself,” was the reply. 

“But, papa,” she continued, “he might have 
given you something that would have helped 
you.” 

“Who can cure a sick soul?” said her father, 
sadly and bitterly. “But for you and your 
affection, I could have wished to have died long, 
long ago.” 

“Papa,” pleaded the girl, “do not grieve thus. 
And if there is any new care or trouble, tell it 
to me. The confidence would surely ease your 
heart.” 

“Alice, there is nothing new,” replied her father. 
“It is only that the meeting with this young 
Englishman, and the sound of my own tongue 
from strange lips, have made me long for my 
own country; reviving feelings that I have long 
tried to bury, but how vainly my present 
weakness shows. But it will pass, my daughter, 
and all will be well again, — that is, unless 
Spiridion should molest us. That will be for 
me now an ever-present fear.” 

“Come! It is late, papa,” said the girl. • “Do 
not read to-night. Rest and sleep will refresh 


a life’s labyrinth. 


53 


you; and to-morrow, I am sure, you will feel 
like spending an hour with our guest. Now that 
the first shock of meeting him has passed, I 
believe it will be a benefit to you to see and 
converse with one of your countrymen. Dearest 
of fathers, it must have been some dreadful 
mistake that has driven you from your native 
land, which now, for the first time, I learn is so 
near and dear to your heart.” 

“Best of daughters, angel of love,” replied the 
father — and then Lord Kingscourt heard no 
more. A door opened and closed, and the echo 
of retiring footsteps resounded along the passage. 

At this moment the servant entered the sick- 
room. 

“Briggs, said the Earl, “I feel a draught behind 
me. Will you see what causes it ? ” 

“There is a door here, my Lord,” replied the 
servant, carefully closing it. “It seems to lead to 
a library, for there is a low bookcase just inside.” 

“The catch is not good, I imagine,” said the 
Earl. “To-morrow you had better get a nail 
and secure it.” 

“I will, my Lord,” answered Briggs, lowering 
the blinds. 

Ten minutes later, having taken his sleeping 
draught, the Earl was fast in a dreamless slumber. 


CHAPTER Y. 


Four months had elapsed since the night on 
which the events narrated in the last chapter 
took place; and Lord Kingscourt, still at the 
villa, sat on the veranda, through whose inter- 
lacing vines the silvery moonlight filtered. But 
to-night he was not alone, nor was he melancholy. 
By his side sat the fair young daughter of the 
house, with a sparkle in her eyes and a deeper 
flush on her cheek, which made her seem more 
beautiful than ever. For a month the Earl had 
tossed upon a bed of pain; during part of the 
time he had been delirious, and his life was 
despaired of. Slow convalescence followed; and 
it was then that Mr. Strange introduced his 
daughter ; and between them they ministered 
to the comfort and pleasure of their guest so 
effectually that he seemed to receive new life and 
vigor into his veins, and to feel that of all 
loveliest spots on earth, this simple home upon 
the Corinthian Gulf was the happiest and the 
most beautiful. 

The acute, well-balanced mind of the young girl, 
joined to a modest frankness and sweet simplicity 
of character, and a refinement of manner, further 
enhanced by her marvellous beauty, of which she 

54 


a life’s labyrinth. 


55 


appeared entirely unconscious, soon made an 
impression on a heart hitherto untouched; and 
as day succeeded day the spell more strongly 
enchained him, until he inwardly vowed that all 
his hopes, dreams, and affections were centered 
in Alice, and that life would be a dreary waste 
without her. The voice of prudence had more 
than once warned him of the risk of taking an 
unknown, obscure and unsophisticated girl to 
be the mistress of his heart and home. But the 
longer he remained under the hospitable roof 
of her father, the more he became convinced that, 
for some mysterious reason, Mr. Strange had 
left a circle not in any way inferior to that to 
which he himself belonged ; and he also felt certain 
that it was no disgraceful episode which had 
impelled him to leave home and friends to become 
an exile in a foreign land. 

Lord Kingscourt was not by nature a man 
who acted on impulse; therefore, even in this 
matter, although convinced that here, and here 
only, lay his future happiness, he had deliberated 
long and seriously before committing his fate to 
the hands of her who had become its arbitress. 
It had never occurred to him that he would meet 
with opposition from her father. All that he 
feared was that his passion might not be returned ; 
for, while nothing could be kinder or more friendly 
than her attitude toward him, never had she, by 


56 


a life’s labyrinth. 


look or word, betrayed a warmer feeling. It 
had been his intention, as befitted an honorable 
gentleman, to address Mr. Strange on the subject 
nearest his heart, before betraying his feelings to 
her who was already its mistress; but circum- 
stances often change our plans, and so it was 
in this case. 

He had received that afternoon an important 
letter, which demanded his speedy return to 
England; and, though still weak, he determined 
to set out at once, — at least a fortnight sooner 
than he had intended. Stepping from his room 
to the veranda, he walked almost its entire length 
unaware that the object of his thoughts had been 
for some time sitting at the other end. As he 
caught sight of her in the light of the newly risen 
moon, a sharp pang shot through his heart as 
he realized how near was the hour of parting; 
although he hoped the separation would be only 
temporary and short. And yet nothing was 
further from his thoughts than a declaration of 
love when he said abruptly: 

“Miss Strange, I have had letters to-day which 
render my immediate return to England impera- 
tive. Now that I must tear myself away from 
this garden of delights, I realize how dear, how 
inexpressibly dear, it has become to me.” 

He marked the sudden start which the shock of 
his announcement caused her,— the pallor of her 


A life’s labyrinth. 


57 


lovely face, — yes, even the tearful eyes which met 
his own, as she looked up at him and answered : 

“Ah ! must you go ? How we shall miss you ! ” 

Then his prudence was scattered to the winds. 

“Alice, forgive me ! ” he said, impetuously. “ But 
you are always Alice in my thoughts. If you but 
knew how my hopes are centered here, with you, 
in you ! Alice, I love you. That tells all my heart 
feels, but which my lips can not express — hope, 
fear, regret — everything. I love you, — I want 
you for my wife.” 

“And have you not divined, as I feared you 
would,” she asked simply, as her eyes sought the 
ground, “that I also have given you my heart?” 

“No, my sweet one, I did not guess it,” he 
replied. “My shy -eyed little flower, you have 
hidden your secret well. Not by a glance have 
you betrayed it.” 

“Nor would I ever have betrayed it,” she said, 
a little proudly, “if you had not spoken. For I 
have my father— my dear father, — whose love has 
been everything to me all my life. If you had 
gone — ” 

.“We shall not consider that possibility at all,” 
answered the happy lover, taking a seat beside 
her, where we will allow them to discuss feelings, 
plans and probabilities, without further intrusion. 

The tinkle of the supper bell was heard all too 
soon for them. With happy, hopeful hearts they 


58 


A life’s labyrinth. 


entered the dining-room, where Mr. Strange was 
already seated. 

“Shall we tell him now?” whispered Alice in 
the ear of her lover. 

“Wait until he retires to the library,” was the 
reply. “There we shall be safe from intrusion.” 

To the pair, so full of their own bright hopes, 
it seemed that their happiness must be evident to 
the silent man, who sat, unusually preoccupied 
to-night, at the foot of the table. But he noticed 
nothing, and soon sought the library, whither 
they followed him. As the door closed behind 
them, he turned from the table where he had 
already seated himself, and in a moment realized 
the situation; for they stood before him, hand 
in hand. A look of agony overspread his pale 
countenance. 

“What is this?” he cried. “What is the 
meaning of this?” 

“It can have but one meaning, sir,” answered 
Lord Kingscourt, somewhat discomfited by his 
reception. “ I love your daughter. Can you not 
have seen it? She has done me the honor to 
promise to be my wife, and we have come to ask 
your consent and blessing.” 

“Sit down, both of you,” said Mr. Strange, 
resting his hands upon the table. “Unhappy 
that I am, I never dreamed of this. If I had, it 
could have been avoided.” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


59 


The Earl rose to his feet. 

“Mr. Strange,” he said with dignity, “I come 
to ask your daughter for my wife. Unworthy of 
her undoubtedly I may be, as any man must 
be unworthy of angelic virtue and transcendent 
loveliness; but such as I am, you know me. 
My lineage is unsullied; my position is beyond 
question; my possessions are not insignificant. 
Surely you can not think me an impostor, or 
aught but what I have represented myself to 
be?” 

“I believe you to be not only a gentleman by 
birth and inheritance, but one of Nature’s noble- 
men. During the short time you have been under 
my roof I have learned to respect, admire— nay, 
to love you as a son. But never once did a 
thought of what has come to pass, cross my poor, 
blind soul. Lord Kingscourt,” he continued, 
raising his voice and clasping his hands in agony, 
“I am an accursed man. My daughter shares the 
ban that is upon me. Poor girl! poor girl! she 
can never become the wife of any man, — never! 
Marriage is not for her; nor love, nor any of 
those sweet and tender ties which other women 
may contract. Like my own, her sweet, young 
life is, and must forever be, desolate—” 

“But, my dear sir,” interrupted the Earl, “you 
allow yourself to dwell too strongly on the cause, 
whatever it may be, which has made you an exile, 


60 


A life’s labyrinth. 


whether voluntary or otherwise. Pardon me, but 
you have grown morbid. I ask no explanation, — 
I do not wish to hear one word of your story. 
Be that what it may, it can not, should not, affect 
so deeply the future of her who is your all on 
earth. I love her, she has assured me that my 
love is returned. To-day I received an imperative 
summons to return to England, which has 
hastened the resolution ! had formed, weeks ago, 
to bear away with me to my own land the only 
woman whom I have ever wished to call my wife. 
I go, but I will soon return. Unsay your cruel 
words, — let me but hope; and, when my business 
in England is finished, I will return at once to 
claim — ” 

“No more! no more!” cried his host, drawing 
his daughter close to his bosom. “I tell you 
again that I am an accursed man. My story is 
not yet forgotten in that old home to which you 
are returning. If you knew it, Lord Kingscourt— 
knew it as the world knows it, — you would shrink 
in loathing from her and me. Let us not prolong 
this interview, which must be painful to you, as 
it is agony unspeakable to me.” 

“And you, Alice?” asked the Earl, turning to 
the young girl, who at her father’s last excited 
words, had risen from her seat, and was now 
clinging to his arm. 

“My place is with father,” she replied, firmly. 


A life's labyrinth. 


61 


“Let us forget this day and all that has occurred. 
We were mistaken; let us think kindly of each 
other in the future, and that is all. For my 
part, I would give worlds to unsay what in an 
unguarded moment I revealed this evening. Go! 
Forget me — forget us, Lord Kingscourt ! ” she 
entreated, leaning her head upon her father's 
shoulder to hide the tears which began to flow. 

“Your voice, your tears, are kinder than your 
words," he exclaimed. “Yes, I will go, as I am 
bidden to do; but forget I can not — I will not. 
I go, but I shall return." 

“Never! never!" cried Mr. Strange. “Sooner 
than think it, I would tear myself and my 
daughter from this shelter, where we have dwelt 
in peace so many years. Sooner than believe it 
possible, I would go forth once more, seeking 
another refuge for myself and my child, — one 
where you could never find us." 

“That can not be found on earth!" said 
Kingscourt, passionately. “But," he continued, 
in a calmer tone, once more brought to a sense 
of what was expected of him under the harrowing 
circumstances, “I shall no longer be an intruder. 
Early to-morrow morning I shall be on my way." 

“An intruder you have not been, my Lord," 
answered his host, stung by what he considered 
a reflection upon his hospitality. “But for the 
unfortunate ending of your stay beneath my roof, 


62 


a life’s labyrinth. 


your residence here would have been the one 
bright episode of our lives in Greece. But — ” 

“No more ! no more, I beg! ” entreated the Earl. 
“It is indeed time to end this sorrowful inter- 
view. Adieu, sir ! I owe you the deepest gratitude 
that one man can owe to another. Before you 
have arisen to-morrow morning I shall have 
departed.” 

Mr. Strange pressed the Earl’s extended hand; 
and, gently releasing his daughter’s hold upon 
his arm turned toward the window. 

“Alice,” said the young man clasping both her 
hands, “ours has been a short, sweet dream, from 
which we have been rudely awakened. But I, for 
one, do not despair, final as my dismissal seems 
to be. With me, to love once is to love forever. 
And yet I do not seek to bind you, for you are 
young and fair.” 

“Lord Kingscourt,” said the girl, a roseate 
flush overspreading her delicate cheek, “you have 
heard my father’s words. I shall abide by them. 
But my heart is a loyal one ; and, like yours, my 
love is something beyond my keeping. I can say 
no more, — I am no adept in these things.” 

“Sweet girl!” he exclaimed, “all that you say 
is better said than if you had spent your life in 
the courts of kings; for it comes from an unsullied, 
truthful heart. I have one favor to ask — only 
one. To-night, perhaps, despair should be my 


A life’s labyrinth. 


63 


portion, but it is not so. Something bids me 
hope. I can not, I will not, renounce you. Then 
give me some little token, I entreat you, — some 
trinket you have worn, which shall be as a 
talisman of hope between you and me.” 

She drew from her finger a delicately fashioned, 
three - stranded ring, and laid it in his hand. 

“ Thanks, my love!” he said, placing it upon 
his little finger. “It bears a good omen,” he 
added. “Do you know its significance?” 

“No,” she replied. “Has it any?” 

“It is a truelover’s-knot,” he answered. 

“I did not know it,” she said; “but it is better 
that the omen should be good than bad. And 
now in my turn I have a request to make. Will 
you give me that Rosary ring you wear upon 
the other hand?” 

For one brief moment he hesitated. 

“It was my mother’s,” he said. “She is in 
heaven, and I thought never to part with it; but 
it seems, too, a good omen that you should ask 
for it. It is too large for you. Let me take it 
to Athens, and measure it by the one you have 
given me. I will have it made smaller, and will 
send it to you as soon as possible.” 

“As you wish,” she replied, simply. “And while 
I wear it, if prayers are of avail, you shall not 
know the need of them.” 

With a sob in her voice, she turned away, unable 


64 


a life’s labyrinth. 


to restrain the grief which was beginning to take 
possession of her. 

Leaving his station by the window, her father 
made a sign to the Earl, who, with a gesture of 
farewell to his host, left the room without another 
word. He was on his way before dawn the 
next morning; and late that evening a special 
messenger arrived from Athens, bearing a package 
addressed to Alice. Opening it, she found the ring, 
altered to fit her third finger. With it came this 
message, written on a slip of paper: 

“Wear this for my sake until we meet again, 
unless— for we are all human — some one should 
take the place I now hold in your heart. If that 
day should ever come, drop this token into the 
blue waters of the bay, and let them bear it to 
the sea, which knows so many secrets, revealing 
none. Kingscourt.” 

All that day Alice had performed her usual 
duties; although the pallor of her countenance, 
and the tears which at intervals filled her eyes, 
betrayed the anguish of her soul. Her father had 
remained in his room, his heart torn by distracting 
feelings. He was not at all deceived by her 
pretence of cheerfulness; although, had the effect 
of the occurrences of the previous night been even 
more terrible to her, he would not have swerved 
from what he believed to be the only course open 
to him. His heart bled for her sorrow. He missed 


A life’s labyrinth. 


65 


the bright presence of the Earl,— his light, quick 
footstep, his handsome face, his happy voice, and 
engaging ways. New wounds were opened; his 
past life and its attendant misfortunes once more 
loomed up before him like a horrible spectre. He 
knew the elasticity of youth, but he dreaded the 
interval which must elapse before Alice could view 
with calmness, even perhaps without regret, the 
events of the past twenty -four hours. Not a 
word had been exchanged between them on the 
subject which occupied all their thoughts; neither 
could take the initiative, neither could break the 
sorrowful spell that seemed to hold their souls 
enchained. 

When the messenger had been refreshed and sent 
on his returning way, the young girl thought she 
would go to her father and show him the token. 
But he lay with closed eyes upon the lounge, 
which he had not left since morning; and, not 
wishing to disturb him, she stole softly into the 
garden, to the shade of a tamarind tree, where 
she was daily wont to say her beads. It was 
with a melancholy pleasure that she recited the 
Rosary on the ring for the first time, — a pleasure 
that she would not have foregone ; for it seemed 
to unite her more closely with him whom she had 
not yet learned to look upon as other than a 
lover, although she never expected to meet him 
again in life. When she had finished she sat for 


66 


A life’s labyrinth. 


a time silently thinking, her mind full of many 
things. Less than half a year ago she had been a 
happy, light-hearted girl ; six months had changed 
her into a thoughtful woman. Courageous and 
buoyant as was her strong, young spirit, it was 
no wonder that life now seemed practically over 
for her, scarcely ere it was begun. Then, rebuking 
herself for what she called selfishness in so 
allowing her mind to dwell on its own unhappi- 
ness, she arose and hurried from the quiet spot, 
feeling that her father had been left too long alone. 
Turning into the path which led to the house, she 
shrank back with a cry of surprise. Spiridion 
stood before her. 

“Spiridion!” she exclaimed. “You here, and 
for what purpose?” 

“For two reasons, lady,” he replied, looking 
steadily into the eyes that did not quail before 
him. “This morning I could again have captured 
the young Englishman had I been so minded. In 
truth, it would not have availed me much, unless 
I had killed him in the pure spirit of wantonness. 
And that I could not have done — thinking of you 
and my promise. Two of my men were with me 
in ambush as he rode away with his servant ; for 
our retreat has been discovered: we have been 
betrayed by one of our number, — a second Judas, 
who will pay a dear price for his treachery; for 
sooner or later we shall be revenged. Once, while 


a life’s labyrinth. 


67 


tlie Earl was here, I met your father in the valley ; 
and, though I assured him that your knowledge 
of our retreat should not be used against you or 
him, he was fearful that some of my comrades 
might not be as trustworthy as myself.” 

“Papa never told me of this,” said the girl. 

“I have come to-night to say that you need 
have no fear, for we have abandoned the cave; 
and our new abode can not be tracked, unless we 
are again betrayed. But this I do not fear.” 

“I was never alarmed, Spiridion,” replied the 
girl; “but I am glad, for my father’s peace of 
mind, things have so turned out.” 

“Lady fair,” said the robber chief, “Spiridion 
is not without gratitude, dark though his record 
be.” 

“You have proved it,” was the answer; “and 
we, in turn, shall also be grateful.” 

Something stirred in the bushes. In an instant 
the robber disappeared into the wood. 

“Papa,” said Alice a moment later, as she 
opened the French window leading from the 
veranda to her father’s room, “ I have something 
to tell you which will relieve your mind of at 
least one care and apprehension.” 

He leaned on his arm, looking up at her quickly. 
Drawing a little hassock to his sofa, she related 
her adventure with something of her old spirit. 
But it was not until they were about to separate 


68 


A life’s labyrinth. 


for the night that she ventured to show him the 
ring. It was indicative of the perfect confidence 
existing between them that she also repeated 
word for word the message which had accom- 
panied it. 

“Poor child ! poor child ! ” he said, drawing her 
closer to him, wdiile a tear glistened on his pallid 
cheek. But the news she had brought him of 
Spiridion had lifted a great cause of anxiety from 
his heart. And as he lay , m clasping the hand of his 
child, he even dared to hope that after a little time 
life would once more resume for them its peaceful 
channels. 

But deep in the heart of the young girl some- 
thing whispered that the gentle stream of long 
ago was lost forever in the turbid waters of care 
and sorrow ; and that, whatever the future might 
bring forth of good or evil, nothing could again 
be for them as it had been. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Several days passed. Father and daughter no 
longer found it possible to fall into their former 
pleasant routine, which had been so greatly dis- 
turbed by the events of the past few months. 
Alice found but little time for regretful thoughts 
of the Earl: the condition of her father caused 
her so much anxiety as to banish all other con- 
cerns. One morning after breakfast, as she was 
about to go into the garden to gather flowers 
for the vases, her father took her hand in his, 
saying : 

“My child, when you have finished your little 
tasks, join me in the library. I have something 
of importance to confide to you.” 

“Yes, papa,” she answered, cheerfully. “I think 
you are looking more like your dear self to-day.” 

Mr. Strange smiled. 

“Perhaps it is because I have finally nerved 
myself to a disagreeable duty. That battle at 
least is over,” lie said. “Do not keep me waiting 
too long, little one, lest I should repent of my 
resolution.” 

When Alice entered the library, she found her 
father seated on the lounge, where he now spent 
most of his time when he was alone. 

69 


70 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“Come, sit beside me, my darling, ” lie said. 
“Here, with your dear eyes looking into mine, 
my hand in yours, I can find courage to tell you 
a sad story, which, until a few short weeks ago, 
I had resolved to leave buried forever in the 
secrecy of my own heart. But lately I have felt 
almost irresistibly impelled to reveal it to you ; 
why I can not tell, for it must inevitably cloud 
your young heart. Still, it seems to me there 
are reasons why, in justice to you and your 
future, I should make it known.” 

“Papa,” replied the girl, “whatever it may be, 
I know you will feel better for having shared it 
with me. Perhaps I may be able to alleviate 
some of the sorrow you feel. It is your own 
story that you are about to tell me; is it not?” 

“It is, my daughter,” answered Mr. Strange. 
“And yet the relation may change all “the world 
for me. It may alienate the only heart that 
loves me ; and if so, break the last tie that binds 
me to earth.” 

“Papa!” she exclaimed, clasping her arms 
about his neck, “you have brooded over this 
sorrow until you are not yourself, or you could 
never think for a single moment that anything 
would alienate my heart from yours.” 

“Not shame, not crime, not dishonor?” he 
asked, in a voice tremulous with emotion. 

“I can associate none of these with my dear 


a life’s labyrinth. 


71 


father,” she replied, without a quaver in her clear, 
young voice, while her eyes flashed, and she clung 
to him more closely. 

“But even if it were possible, nothing, nothing 
that you might have done, or yet might do, could 
change by a single iota my love for you. Papa,” 
she continued, slipping from his side and falling 
on her knees before him, “it will break my heart 
if you can doubt me thus. My love, my life is 
yours. Do not doubt me.” 

“But if I may have selfishly, yet God knows 
unthinkingly, wronged you?” 

“Papa, say no more!” she entreated, resuming 
her place at his side. “ Oh, do not keep me longer 
in suspense, I implore you ; but have mercy on us 
both, and tell me quickly what it is you have 
to confide.” 

Passing his arm about her neck, he drew her 
closer to him. 

“True heart, brave heart,” he said, “you give 
me great courage. Having you, what matters 
the rest!” After a short pause he went on: 
“Twenty-one years ago the Mountherons were 
one of the most prominent families in England. 
Tracing their lineage back through many gener- 
ations, they justly prided themselves on the fact 
that no shadow of stain had ever rested on their 
name. The Marquis of Mountheron was at that 
time a man of about forty years of age. He was 


72 


A life’s labyrinth. 


unmarried, an incurable disease of the hip having 
left him a cripple and a sufferer from childhood. 
Morose and sensitive, he avoided society, and it 
was tacitly agreed among his relatives and friends 
that he would never marry. For his younger and 
only brother, Stratford, he felt a strong affection ; 
and, with a view to increasing the prestige and 
wealth of his own possessions, he had early 
arranged for him a most desirable marriage, — 
which, fortunately, was also one of love on both 
sides. Lady Alicia Clififbourne, the wife of Lord 
Stratford, came of a family whose pride, if any- 
thing, was greater than that into which she had 
married. Young, wealthy, handsome and clever, 
they made indeed an ideal pair. At the expiration 
of a year a daughter was born, and their 
happiness seemed complete. 

“For two years life was a paradise at Mount- 
heron, when suddenly a storm, fierce as it was 
unexpected, burst upon them. During a visit paid 
by the Farl of Cliffbourne to his daughter at 
Mountheron, he and the Marquis became involved 
in a dispute regarding political questions. Both 
were men of decided opinions and violent preju- 
dices ; neither would give way to the convictions 
of the other by the breadth of a hair. In a fit ol 
anger, the Earl of Clififbourne left the castle; 
while the host, after his departure, most unrea- 
sonably vented his anger on his brother and 


A life’s' labyrinth. 


73 


sister-in-law, because they would not join him 
in opposition to the departed guest. In vain did 
Lord Stratford represent that the questions were 
indifferent to them; in vain did he endeavor to 
impress his brother with the impossibility of the 
daughter taking sides against her own father. 
The manner of the Earl became cold and 
estranged ; he no longer gave his brother or 
his wife either confidence or affection. The child, 
of whom he had been very fond, was now 
banished from his presence; and the young pair 
were seriously considering the propriety of taking 
up their residence elsewhere. 

“The alienation between the brothers soon 
became evident to visitors at the castle, and was 
discussed freely in the society of the neighborhood; 
but no one expected the sudden climax of affairs 
which finally took place. One day when the 
house was filled with guests, assembled in honor 
of the birthday of the host, on which occasion 
it had long been customary to give an annual 
dinner, the Marquis suddenly arose from his seat 
at the table, and brusquely announced that, as 
he had, after long and serious deliberation, 
arrived at the conclusion that no child in whose 
veins flowed the blood of Lord Cliffbourne should 
ever inherit the vast possessions of the Mount- 
herons, he had resolved to marry; and for that 
purpose had selected for his wife the daughter 


74 


A life’s labyrinth. 


of a neighboring yoeman, of reduced fortune, but 
of ancestry as noble as his own, — dating back, 
he had ample proof, as far as the Conqueror. He 
then announced the name of the young woman 
whom he had chosen to honor with the title of 
the Marchioness of Mountheron. It was that 
of the masculine daughter of a famous hunting 
squire, celebrated through all the county for the 
slimness of his pocket, and a large family of rude, 
healthy and boisterous girls. Then turning to 
the young wife, he bade her remove her belong- 
ings from the castle as speedily as possible, as he 
would need her apartments for the use of his 
prospective bride, whom he intended to marry 
on the following day. Sobbing, she hastily 
withdrew, conducted as far as the door by her 
husband, who, more indignant at the insult 
offered her than at the loss of the possessions 
he had long considered his inheritance, lost all 
control of himself, and answered his brother 
with a torrent of angry, impetuous reproof. 

“It is painful to dwell longer upon that terrible 
scene, which was ended by Lord Stratford, who 
:ried out, as he left the room, carried away 
by his anger: ‘Of the great injustice you have 
done me, Mountheron, I make no account; but 
for the cruel insult you have inflicted upon my 
wife, in the presence of others, I shall never for- 
give you. And if there is justice in heaven, it will 


a life’s labyrinth. 


75 


not be long before you shall have more reason 
than we to regret this unhappy day.’ He spoke 
in the heat of passion, with no purpose in what 
he said; but later his own words were used as 
potent witnesses against him. The guests dis- 
persed as quickly as possible. Silence settled upon 
the castle at an unusually early hour; for the 
occurrences of the evening had naturally cast a 
deep gloom over all the inmates. 

“The next morning the Marquis of Mountheron 
was found by his valet murdered in his bed. 
A few hours later Lord Stratford was arrested 
for the murder, on the evidence of the butler who 
had been awake with the toothache, and when 
about -to descend the stairs in search of medicine, 
had seen him gently close the door of the Marquis’ 
sleeping-room and turn in the direction of his own 
apartments, which were at the other end of the 
corridor. In vain did Lord Stratford protest 
his innocence: he was remanded for trial. He 
maintained that on the night in question he had 
arisen about midnight, leaving his wife asleep; 
and, having quietly dressed himself, went into the 
garden to cool his aching head and collect his 
scattered thoughts. While there, reflecting on the 
morbid condition and chronic ill health of his 
brother, remembering also his long continued 
kindness during many years, a rush of better 
thoughts overwhelmed him, and he resolved to 


76 


A life’s labyrinth. 


try to subdue the angry feelings which had 
agitated him. He returned to the house; and, 
passing his brother’s door, he thought he heard 
a moan. Knowing him to be subject to parox- 
ysms of pain, a kindly impulse prompted him 
to enter, and he half opened the door. But, 
suddenly feeling a reaction of his late sentiments, 
a sense of the injury inflicted on his wife returned 
to him with redoubled force, and he closed the 
door again as noiselessly as he could. On 
reaching his own room, he found his wife awake 
and anxious. Having explained the cause of his 
absence, he went to bed and slept until morning. 
His story was not believed. He was tried, con- 
victed, and sentenced to imprisonment for life, 
on evidence purely circumstantial. 

“The Earl of Cliff bourne at once removed his 
daughter to his own home, after which she was 
neither permitted to see nor communicate with 
her husband. But she gave him a proof of her 
love and constancy by bribing the jailer, with 
a large amount of money, to allow him to escape 
before his final transference to the prison where 
it had been decreed he should pass the remainder 
of his life. Large private securities of his own, 
which he had placed in the name of his wife, 
were converted by her into money, and sent to 
him through a trusty servant, who had been his 
nurse. Disguised and under a false name, he 


a life's labyrinth. 


77 


embarked for Portugal; from thence he went to 
Brazil, where, having invested his money, he 
doubled it in a very short time. 

“After a couple of years' absence from Europe, 
a yearning for news of those he had left behind 
took possession of him. There was, alas! no 
necessity for a new disguise; for sorrow had 
whitened his hair, sunken his cheeks, and bowed 
his once straight and stalwart form. His best 
friend would have recognized at most only a 
slight resemblance between the merchant, Edward 
Strange, and the once handsome and dignified 
Lord Stratford. Having disposed of part of his 
interests in Brazil, and leaving the rest in good 
hands, he repaired to Paris, where, searching 
through files of old newspapers, he read the 
particulars of his own escape from prison, and 
also of certain proceedings on the part of his 
father-in-law which had separated his wife from 
him forever. Although, if she believed him guilty, 
they were already separated in feeling as well as 
in fact, the blow fell heavily upon his soul. A few 
days later he read in one of the current journals 
that the Earl of Cliffbourne and his daughter 
were at Nice. An irresistible desire to see once 
more the wife who had probably disowned him, 
and the child whom he had so tenderly loved, 
took possession of him. 

“He went to Nice, and, disguised as a grape- 


78 


A life’s labyrinth. 


picker, watched on the roadside before the villa 
of the Earl for the equipage in which he divined 
they would take their daily drive. He was not 
disappointed. Suddenly he saw them— the stern 
old man, with features carven as in marble; his 
daughter seated beside him, paler but more 
beautiful than ever; the child whom he adored 
between them, her blue eyes dancing with childish 
joy; her happy prattle piercing his ears as no note 
of sorrow could have done. After the carriage 
had passed, the fugitive threw himself upon the 
ground and wept long and bitterly. The next 
day he hovered about the villa and saw them 
again. Then he made acquaintance with the 
gardener. He had spent several years in Italy 
during his early manhood, and knew the language 
well. The old man readily availed himself of the 
proffered assistance of the stranger in carrying 
flower -pots and the like. 

“From time to time the little Constance, 
straying from her attendant, would speak a few 
childish words to the stranger; and one day, 
seeing him look sad, she offered him flowers. Once 
she asked him if he had any little girls ; he sadly 
answered that he had none. ‘Then I will love 
you,’ said the child; ‘for you have a pretty face.’ 
It must have been the force of Nature in her infant 
heart that impelled her toward him, as his 
appearance was that of the humblest laborer. 


a life’s labyrinth. 


79 


“ Feeling that to linger in the place was fraught 
with danger, as he had heard from the gardener 
that a large reward had been offered for the 
capture of the escaped murderer, he resolved to 
tear himself away. That night he was seized 
with a great longing for a last sight of his child. 
He knew the location of the little room, next her 
mother’s, where she was accustomed to sleep. A 
faint light was burning, the nurse absent, the 
little one lying on her bed, fast asleep. On the 
impulse of the moment, without an instant’s 
premeditation, impelled by the anguish and 
hunger of his soul, he entered the room, seized 
the child, and, wrapping her in a large plaid that 
lay on the chair beside the bed, hurried away. It 
may seem incredible, but it is true, that when, 
acting upon a desperate resolve, he told her he 
was her father, and would take her to a beautiful 
country, where she could have all the flowers of 
which she was so passionately fond, she believed 
him, seemed to give him all her affection at once, 
and did not grieve for those she had left behind. 
It appears that of her mother she had seen but 
little; her nurse she did not love, and of her 
grandfather she was actually afraid. 

“The child’s apparent indifference to what he 
could not but acknowledge was a cruel separation 
made him fear at first that she could not feel for 
him either the affection for which he yearned, but 


80 


a life’s labyrinth. 


such was not the case. In her childish heart she 
had cherished a dream and a memory of her 
banished father, of whom she had heard those 
about her speak in terms of reproach. Now that 
he was restored to her, she lavished all the love 
of her innocent heart upon him; and, disguised 
like himself beyond recognition, clung to him 
through many and strange journey ings, until, the 
hue-and-cry of her disappearance over, they 
anchored at last in the beautiful, restful haven 
of Greece.” 

Mr. Strange paused, and buried his face in his 
hands. Alice was sobbing. 

‘ ‘My child,” he exclaimed, after he had conquered 
his emotion, “if your father sinned, it was through 
excess of love for you. Of the other crime of which 
he was accused, for which he was made a pariah 
and a fugitive on the face of the earth, you may or 
may not believe him innocent, but innocent he is.” 

“Papa!” cried the young girl, clasping him in 
her arms. “J believe you guilty? Can you think 
it for a moment ? And you were right to take me 
from a mother who had deserted you, who could 
never have loved you as you deserved.” 

“Ah! yes, she loved me dearly once — ” 

“Not as I love you! ” rang out the clear, sweet 
voice of the girl. “When you needed her most 
she failed you; when you were in sorrow and 
disgrace she repudiated you. Oh, I thank God, 


a life’s labyrinth. 


81 


my father — my own dear father, — that you took 
me away ; that it has been my happy lot to have 
had your love and care, and to have been some 
comfort to you during all these years!” 

“0 my God, I thank Thee! Were it not for 
leaving her alone and lonely, I think I would 
gladly die this moment.” 

“Die!” exclaimed Alice, her eyes beaming. “It 
is now, papa, that we must begin to live; for 
the next thing to be done is to establish your 
innocence.” 

“Alas! that were impossible.” 

“ Nothing is impossible with truth for our 
watchword and God our helper!” cried his 
daughter, impetuously. “Sorrow and banish- 
ment have made you timid, dear papa; but I 
am young and strong, and I fear nothing. Trust 
me, we shall find a way. But you are exhausted. 
Rest a while, and after dinner we shall talk 
again.” 

So, arranging the cushions under his head and 
closing the blinds, she went back to the garden. 


!■ 


CHAPTER VII. 


Kneeling in prayer before tbe image of Her Blessed 
Mother, the only one she had ever known, Alice 
asked for guidance, as well as strength and 
courage, to execute the resolve which had been 
born in her soul even while her poor father was 
relating his strange, sad history. Pressing the 
Rosary ring to her lips, she recited the Sorrowful 
Mysteries; feeling that, in some subtle, inexplic- 
able manner, the love which she had so bravely 
renounced at the bidding of her father was a 
bond uniting her with the future, as that for her 
father had filled her young and happy heart in 
the past. 

The thought gave her hope. Had it not been 
for the occurrences of the last few months, the 
course of events might have continued indefinitely; 
and as she prayed and reflected, once more she 
blessed that love, even though she might never 
again behold its object. At the same time she 
felt convinced that her father would unalterably 
oppose her resolution; and for that reason she 
concluded to obtain from him all necessary 
information relating to the end she had in view, 
before asking his permission to carry out her 
design. 

82 


A life’s labyrinth. 


83 


Alice arose from her knees with her mind firmly 
fixed ; and was glad to learn, on once more 
seeking her father, that he had had a long and 
comfortable sleep. After dinner they retired to 
the garden, where she plied him with questions, — 
partly to obtain the information she sought, and 
partly to prevent him from suspecting her real 
intention until she had learned all that was 
essential to the furtherance of her plan. In this 
way she gathered much family history, which it 
unburthened his heart to disclose. His cousin, 
Roland Ingestre, was now the Marquis of 
Mountheron ; and her father had learned, through 
the columns of an English paper some years back, 
that he was also a suitor for the hand of his wife. 

Alice’s cheek flushed as she listened. 

“Papa,” she asked, abruptly, “why did you 
change my name to Alice ? Constance is so much 
more beautiful.” 

“You may think me weak, my child,” he replied ; 
“but it was because of its resemblance to your 
mother’s name.” 

She bit her lip. 

“And for whom was I called Constance?” she 
inquired. 

“For your grandmother — my own dear mother,” 
answered her father. 

“Will you call me so again? I like it better,” 
she said. 


84 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“Yes, my darling, if you wish it,” was the reply. 
“ But do not allow your soul to cherish bitterness 
against a mother whose idol you would have been 
had I not so cruelly deprived her of you.” 

“I shall not, dear papa,” said the girl; “but 
hereafter call me only Constance.” 

“It shall be so,” said her father. 

And from that moment he so called her, as we 
shall also. 

Mr. Strange could not but smile when he saw 
his daughter take a note -book from her pocket, 
in which from time to time she put down certain 
statements which seemed to interest her. 

“Pray, what are you writing, little one?” he 
asked. 

“I am taking notes of those portions of the case 
which seem to me to be of greatest importance,” 
she replied. 

“With what view?” said her father. 

“That you shall know later, papa,” was her 
answer. “Tell me,” she said at length, “had 
Roland Ingestre anything to gain by the death 
of your brother?” 

“He was, failing a male heir of my own, next 
in succession. But do not harbor any unworthy 
suspicion, my child. He was uncapable of such 
a crime.” 

“Was he rich in his own right?” 

“No, but a fine fellow.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


85 


“I am glad to hear it, papa. Now, who were 
the principal witnesses against you?” 

‘ 1 Several of the neighboring gentry, who were 
present at my brother’s announcement, witnessed 
his insult to my wife, and heard what followed.” 

“Were they summoned at the trial?” 

“They were.” 

“What was the name of the butler?” 

“Buffan, an old and valued servant, who gave 
his testimony reluctantly. Orrin, the steward, 
and Nadand, my brother’s valet, both heard him 
violently denounce me before he retired for the 
night. He mentioned my having made threats 
against him.” 

“Was there anyone else, papa? ” 

“The Rev. Mr. Amory, the chaplain, who slept 
in the house that night, and who was awakened 
between eleven and twelve o’clock by loud con- 
versation in my brother’s room. Supposing we 
were renewing our altercation, he listened for a 
few moments ; then, hearing no more, he went to 
sleep.” 

“ What of Nadand, the valet ? ” 

“He had been some years in my brother’s ser- 
vice, and had suffered much from his whims ; but 
no one suspected him of the murder. Truth to 
tell, my child, appearances against me were so 
overwhelming that no attempt was made at 
further inquiry.” 


86 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“And you had none made?” 

“None, Constance,” he said, calling her thus 
for the first time in many years. “I succumbed 
without a struggle to what seemed to be an 
inevitable fate.” 

“And my mother — ah, my mother! — could she 
not have done something for you?” asked Con- 
stance, bitterly. 

“She saved my life,” replied her father, gently. 

“Yes, but at what a price!” cried the girl, 
dashing the tears from her eyes. “Speaking of 
the valet,” she resumed, — “might there not have 
been a motive there? Was nothing missing?” 

“Nothing except some uncut diamonds, which 
my brother had kept in a secret receptacle known 
only to himself, but which he had given us to 
understand he had turned into money some time 
before.” 

“Was the transaction ever verified by docu- 
ments?” 

“Never; that was the only mystery. But, then, 
he was always mysterious. It amounted to 
nothing.” 

“Was there any one else, papa?” 

“No one, my child. I think I have told you 
all that is to be told. Do not brood over it, my 
dear. Let us put it out of our thoughts, as far 
as we are able, from this time forward. Life 
has taken on a new interest for me since I have 


a life’s labyrinth. 


87 


gotten rid of the burden without the loss of your 
love.” 

Replacing the note -book in her pocket, Con- 
stance tried for the rest of the day to divert her 
father’s mind. She succeeded so effectually that 
he found himself looking at her with astonish- 
ment from time to time, so joyous and light- 
hearted did she appear. His tragic story had been 
the means of arousing both from the unnatural 
state of mind into which they had fallen. Not 
for a long period of time had his spirit felt so 
buoyant as that night when he laid his head 
upon his pillow. Furthermore, absorbed in his 
own life -sorrow, he had quite forgotten the 
episode consequent upon the coming of Lord 
Kingscourt. 

The next day, when Constance went as usual 
to the library, her father said : 

“My dear, I have been thinking that it would 
be wise to destroy the notes you took yesterday. 
The book might be lost; and the story, or some 
part of it, thus revealed to the world, from whom 
it must be our care in the future as it has been 
in the past, to conceal it. Do you not agree with 
me? It can serve no purpose; to forget, as far 
as possible, is also best.” 

“Papa,” replied the young girl, “you have 
helped me to say that which I knew not how 
to announce to you. I took those notes with 


88 


a life’s labyrinth. 


a deliberate intention. I hope they may prove 
useful to me, for I am going to England.” 

“To England, my darling!” exclaimed her 
father, looking at her in amazement. 

“ Yes, papa,” she answered, with great firmness. 
“I have resolved to go to England, in order to 
try to clear your name from the disgrace that 
now hangs over it. And I have the deepest 
conviction that God will assist and crown my 
efforts. All that I want now is your permission 
and your blessing.” 

Then ensued a long and loving conflict between 
those two souls, whose world was bounded by 
each other. It was not concluded that day or 
the next. A fortnight passed before the purpose 
of her brave, young heart triumphed over the 
fears and timidity of the outcast, to whom an 
unjust world had been so merciless. At last, with 
many misgivings, he gave his consent to a journey 
which she succeeded in convincing him could not, 
save by accident of travel, result in injury to 
herself; and which she hoped would prove of 
incalculable benefit to him whom she loved wfith 
all the fervor of her unspotted soul. He relied 
much on her discretion, which, in the case of the 
robber Spiridion, had already been tried. What 
plans were made, what further information 
imparted, w^e shall see developed with the prog- 
ress of this history. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


89 


Six weeks later Constance found Herself in 
Paris, at the house of an old Frenchwoman 
who had been her governess for a couple of years ; 
and from thence, accompanied by a chaperon 
provided by her old teacher, she set out for 
England. After a brief sojourn in London, she 
departed for the spot which had recently become 
of more interest to her than any place in the 
world, excepting that where her beloved father 
waited and prayed for the result of the mission 
to which she had dedicated herself, body and soul. 
Paramount even to her determination to clear 
his reputation from the stain which had rested 
on it so long was the fear that discovery 
was always possible. A long and undisturbed 
residence abroad had lulled his earlier fears; but 
his daughter felt, with a chill of terror whenever 
the thought recurred to her, that such security 
rested on the weakest of foundations. From a 
chance recognition the most dreadful consequences 
would be likely to ensue. 

She pondered often on these things; her fresh 
young cheek began to grow pale, as fear and 
anxiety, and all the new and unforeseen situations 
attendant upon her position, arrayed themselves 
before her. But when for the first time her eyes 
rested upon the ancestral halls of her forefathers, 
she drew a long draught of courage from the 
prospect; and, with a fervent prayer for strength 


90 


a life’s labyrinth. 


and resolution, once more nerved herself for the 
fray. 

The family seat of the Marquis of Mountheron 
was situated upon the rocky coast of Cornwall. 
The walls of the castle, grey as the rocks out 
of which they were built, sloped, on one side, 
directly upward from the sea. The waves broke 
against its huge foundations, the winds of winter 
swept around it, — it was a spot which seemed 
destined by nature to loneliness and gloom. 
However, art had done much to redeem its 
rugged approach. On the south side it was 
surrounded by beautiful gardens. The village 
near it had lately become fashionable as a summer 
resort, and two modern hotels had sprung up in 
the neighborhood ; but, ignoring these, it was to 
the quaint old “Mountheron Arms” that Con- 
stance and her companion ordered their luggage 
to be taken. From the window of her bedroom 
she had a fine view of the castle. As she looked 
upon its lofty turrets and grim, rocky sides, her 
heart leaped to her throat; and, falling upon her 
knees, she buried her face in her hands. 

“0 my God,” she prayed, “restore to my father 
that which is rightfully his! Help me to accom- 
plish soon and well that which I have undertaken. 
0 Mary, my sweet Mother, do not abandon me 
when I most need your tender guardianship and 
assistance! ” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


91 


A knock at the door aroused her. It was her 
companion, Mrs. Tompkins, who announced the 
time of departure of the train by which she was 
to return to France. 

“It will be necessary for you to engage some 
one in my place at once,” she said. “The people 
here would not consider it respectable for a 
young lady to be without either maid or com- 
panion.” 

Constance rang for the landlady, who soon 
made her appearance. 

“I think of remaining here for a time,” she said 
to the pleasant looking hostess; “and as my 
friend is obliged to return to France without 
delay, I should like you to engage some discreet 
young girl, or preferably a middle-aged woman, 
who would keep me company and perform a 
few necessary duties while I am here. Do you 
know of such a person?” 

“I can lay my hand on the very woman,” said 
the landlady, dropping a courtesy. “It is Mrs- 
Goff, who was a servant at the castle in the late 
Marquis’ time. She is a likely woman, and very 
pleasant spoken.” 

Constance felt her cheek flush at the landlady’s 
words. Fortune seemed kind to her already. 

“Thank you!” she said. “And when can I 
see her?” 

“I will send for her at once,” replied the 


92 


A life’s labyrinth. 


woman. “She can be here in less than half an 
hour.” 

“Is the Marquis of Mountheron an old man!” 
asked Constance, in as careless a manner as she 
could assume; though she fancied the landlady 
must detect in the very tone of her voice the 
interest she felt. 

“No, ma’am,” answered the woman. “He is 
not more than middle-aged.” 

“Is he liked by the people hereabout?” con- 
tinued the young girl. 

“Yes, he is indeed,” replied the landlady. “He 
is a very good landlord. He spends most of his 
time in London, but he is here at present. I 
doubt but you’ve heard the story of the murder 
of the old Marquis, ma’am?” 

“Yes,” said Constance, turning abruptly to 
the window, “I have heard something of it. 
But will you kindly summon the woman you 
mentioned? ” 

The landlady retired at once, and in a short 
time returned with a comely, gentle - voiced 
woman, whose appearance at once recommended 
her to Constance. She had come prepared to 
remain; and as soon as Constance had bidden 
adieu to her former travelling companion, whom 
she dismissed with a handsome acknowledgment, 
she expressed herself as desirous of taking a 
walk. 


a life’s labyrinth. 


93 


“May I take the liberty, ma’am, of asking you 
to call me Marjorie?” said the new maid. 

“Certainly,” replied Constance. “I shall like 
that better than Mrs. Goff. And I feel that we 
shall get on nicely together.” 

“God bless your sweet face! I know that we 
shall,” said Maijorie, in an undertone, as her 
young mistress retired to put on her hat. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

When Constance and her maid set out for their 
walk, the latter suggested that they go in the 
direction of the sea-wall, or parade; as that 
gave a better view of the castle and surroundings, 
of which, as a native, she seemed proud, and to 
the glories of which she wished her young mistress 
to be introduced. 

The heart of the young girl, a stranger and 
exile in the land of her fathers, was filled with 
emotion as she looked up at those frowning walls 
and lofty towers, within whose embrace her 
earliest infancy had been sheltered. But her face, 
schooled to repress her real feelings, betrayed 
none of the agitation of her mind. After they 
had walked for some time on the parade, she 
expressed a desire for a more secluded pathway, 
if such could be found ; and presently they turned 
to the left and seated themselves on the base of 
a projecting shelf of rocks abutting on the 
carriage road leading to the castle. 

For a while they sat in silence; the heart of 
Constance was heavy with many thoughts. 

“ Marjorie , ” she asked at length, pointing with 
her parasol to a road which diverged from the 
one in front of them, “whither does that lead?” 

94 


a life’s labyrinth. 


95 


“To Cliff bourne, Miss,” answered tbe woman. 

“Ah!” exclaimed her young mistress. “And 
who lives there?” 

“It is the property of the Marquis of Cliff- 
bourne,” said Marjorie. “He is now abroad, 
and of late years it has not often been occupied ; 
but at present the cousin of Lord Cliffbourne, the 
daughter of the late Marquis, and wife of the 
unfortunate Lord Stratford, is there, in her former 
home.” 

“Is she an old woman?” inquired Constance, 
in an indifferent tone. 

“No, not at all, Miss,” was the reply. “She is 
probably thirty -eight or thereabouts. She is 
very beautiful, and does not look her age. People 
who do not know her call her cold and haughty, 
but that is only her outward appearance. She 
may have become so, to be sure; but twenty 
years ago, when I lived in the family, she was 
kindness itself. You know there is a terrible 
story connected with her life?” 

“Yes, I have heard of it. Probably you are in 
possession of all the particulars?” 

“I think I know as much about the dreadful 
affair as anybody,” remarked Marjorie. “One 
thing I do not believe, and never shall.” 

“What is that?” inquired her mistress. 

“That Lord Stratford committed the murder 
with which he was charged.” 


96 


A LIFE’S LABYRINTH. 


Constance cast a grateful look upon the faithful 
woman as she replied: 

“I have heard rumors of this murder from so 
many sources that I should like to learn some- 
thing of it from one who had been on the spot. 
A stranger travelling from place to place is 
generally curious, you know, to learn the histories 
of these old families.” 

“It is a long story, Miss, and the sun is grow- 
ing hot. What if we postpone the telling of it 
until we return to the inn?” 

“Very well,” rejoined Constance, indifferently. 
“Perhaps it would be still better to wait until 
this evening, after dinner. My head aches a little, 
and I think when we go back I should like to 
lie down.” 

Retracing their steps, they soon reached the 
inn, where after a restless hour on her pillow, 
Constance found relief for her aching head in 
sleep. She awoke with a start, to find the day 
far spent. Hastily making her toilet, she passed 
to the little sitting-room, where Marjorie sat 
knitting near the window. 

“I feel so much better,” said Constance. “I 
must have slept three hours at least.” 

“Yes, Miss: you’ve been asleep a long time. 
Once I went in softly to see if you were awake 
and wanted anything, and then a queer thing 
happened.” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


97 


“What was it, Marjorie ?” asked the other 
quickly, fearful that in her sleep she might have 
said something she would not have wished the 
maid to hear. 

“Oh, nothing, Miss, to alarm any one!” replied 
the woman. “But as you lay there fast asleep 
you looked the image of Lady Cliff bourne,— she 
that was Lady Stratford before she got separated 
from her poor unfortunate husband.” 

It was well that the twilight hid the quick 
flush which suffused the young girl’s cheek. But 
there was no tremor in her voice as she 
answered : 

“Marjorie, I am afraid you have been thinking 
of old times so much to-day that your fancy has 
run away with you. After dinner — for I am 
very hungry, I confess, — I shall allow you to 
unburthen your mind by telling me the story 
of the Mountherons.” 

“No, it was not fancy,” said Marjorie. “You 
did look like her; and there’s even something 
in the sound of your voice that reminds me of 
her.” 

“Away, away, you foolish woman!” said Con- 
stance playfully, turning to the window and 
parting the curtains. “See what the landlady 
has for dinner, and ask her to bring it up quickly. 
Your former mistress would not be flattered if 
she could hear you this evening.” 


98 


A LIFE’S labyrinth. 


Folding her knitting the maid prepared to leave 
the room. 

“Kindly as I think of her, and fair as I know 
her to be,” she answered, “’twould be naught 
to her discredit if there was a resemblance, Miss.” 

After she had gone Constance remained looking 
out on the sea, the boom of the incoming tide 
falling upon her ears, in fitting accompaniment 
to the sad perplexities of her soul. But a moment 
later she was touching the Rosary ring with 
reverent fingers; and when Marjorie appeared, 
accompanied by the hostess to lay the cloth and 
place dinner on the table, she had recited five 
decades of the Rosary, which seemed to draw 
her nearer to God and His Blessed Mother by 
every repetition. Strengthened and comforted, 
she drew the curtains and sat down to a well- 
cooked and delicious meal. 

When Marjorie returned from down stairs, after 
she had helped remove the cloth and taken her 
own dinner at the landlady’s table, she found her 
mistress with a strip of exquisite embroidery in 
her hands. 

“Now, Marjorie,” she said, “I am waiting for 
the story of Mountheron. Since hearing that you 
were at service in the castle when the murder was 
committed, I have naturally felt a new interest 
in the sad occurrence.” 

“It was a sad affair, indeed,” observed Mar- 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


99 


jorie, taking her knitting from her pocket and 
resuming her seat by the fire. “I’ve gone over 
it so often in my mind, whiles at the fireside, 
sitting alone in my father’s little cottage on the 
shore, and whiles often in the silent hours of the 
night, when I’d wake and cover my head for 
thinking of it, that I’ve every bit of it by heart, 
fresh as it was the day it happened.” 

‘‘So much the better,” said Constance, with a 
smile, which, forced and saddened as it was, 
nevertheless brightened her face, whose gravity 
the maid thought was too deep for her youth 
and beauty. 

We shall not here repeat the details of the 
narration ; its substance we already know. 
Constance listened in silence until Marjorie 
arrived at that portion of the story relating 
to the escape of Lord Stratford. 

“How was it possible for him to escape 
without the connivance of his jailor?” she 
asked. 

“I don’t know, Miss,” replied the maid. “Some 
said that Lady Stratford was behind it all, — 
even that the old Marquis had helped to get 
him off, rather than have the terrible disgrace 
of imprisonment for life fastened on his son-in- 
law, much as he was turned against him. Others 
again said as how it was Lord Stratford himself 
bribed the jailers; though how he could have 

L.oF C. 


100 


A life’s labyrinth. 


done it, witli no ready money at his command, 
it would be hard to tell.” 

“Were there any children? ” inquired Constance, 
after a pause, anxious to learn how much was 
known of her own story. 

“One, Miss, — a lovely little child, the Lady 
Constance. Lady Stratford hadn’t enough 
sorrow before, but her only child must be taken 
from her.” 

“Did the child die?” asked her mistress. 

“She did, Miss,” answered Marjorie, — “at least 
that’s what is most generally believed. After the 
divorce — ” 

“Why was there a divorce?” interposed Con- 
stance. “Was that necessary when her husband 
was either dead or an outcast whom she was 
never likely to see again?” 

“Well, Miss, it was the doing of the old 
Marquis. He was a very masterful man, and 
he was determined to get rid of the Mountheron 
name altogether. Folks said she resisted it, but 
it was of no use: her father made her go into 
the courts and have a divorce. As I was saying, 
they went to Italy and stayed there a goodish 
spell. It was there that the little one was stolen, 
—stolen, Miss; and there are them that say her 
own father was the thief.” 

“Her own father!” repeated Constance. “You 
mean Lord Stratford?” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


101 


“Of course, Miss,” replied Marjorie. “My own 
first cousin was valet to Lord Cliffbourne at the 
time, and servants see and hear more than their 
masters ever think they do. One night the little 
one went, or was taken from her bed, while the 
nurse was at supper; and, though they scoured 
the country far and near, she was never found. 
A strange man had been seen prowling about; 
he did some odd jobs for the gardener, and he 
had made acquaintance with the child, who had 
spoken of him to her mother. They tried to 
keep it a great secret, but it leaked out that 
Lady Stratford — or Lady Cliffbourne, as they 
call her now, — had seen this man one day when 
she was riding out, and she said afterward she 
couldn’t get rid of the thought that his eyes 
were exactly like her husband’s. Once, too, she 
heard some one humming an English song under 
her window, and she said the voice reminded her 
of Lord Stratford’s. It was the same man, Miss. 
She wasn’t going to say a word to her father, 
but had her mind made up to watch him; how- 
ever, that very night the child disappeared, and 
the man never came back. He covered up his 
tracks well, whoever he was; for it wasn’t till 
long after they traced a stranger with a child 
to a vessel bound for some other foreign port. 
But the ship was wrecked on the voyage, Miss, 
and there was naught left but to suppose that 


102 


A life’s labyrinth. 


the man was drowned with the child. Now, it 
may or may not be that the story is true; but 
I know for certain that Lady Cliffbourne thinks 
it to this day; and small wonder it is, you see, 
Miss, that she is not given to constant smiling 
and easy-going ways. What some people call 
coldness and haughtiness is only gravity; with 
them about her she is kindness itself.” 

* ‘A very sad, sad story,” said Constance, sigh- 
ing deeply; “and it may be as you say, that the 
outward exterior of Lady Stratford does not 
indicate her real nature. Is there any prospect 
of her marrying again?” 

“Oh, no!” replied Marjorie. “It was said, some 
time back, that she was to marry the present 
Earl of Mountheron; but there is not a word 
of truth in it. Both of them being Catholics, 
they would not be allowed by their Church — 
even if she were disposed to do so, which, from 
all appearance, she was not. The Mountheron 
family have always been Catholic, but Lady 
Cliffbourne only became one since the divorce.” 

“What!” exclaimed Constance, almost thrown 
off her guard. “ I thought— -I mean— I had heard 
that — ” 

“My Lady was always a Catholic, Miss?” 
interrupted Marjorie, with some asperity. “No 
indeed. It was only ten years ago that she left 
the church of her fathers and joined the Romans.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


103 


“I am a Catholic myself,” remarked the young 
girl, quietly, thus saving Marjorie from possible 
mortification in the future, should she feel called 
upon to offer her opinion on the respective merits 
of the Catholic and Episcopal churches, as it was 
evident from her manner that her sympathies 
were not with the former. 

“I beg pardon, Miss, if I gave any offence,” 
said the maid; “but you know one’s feelings 
naturally go with one’s own religion.” 

“That is very true, Marjorie,” was the gentle 
response; “and no offence has been taken, as 
none was intended.” 

“Bless your sweet face!” said Marjorie, impul- 
sively. “I wouldn’t hurt you with a single 
word.” 

Constance smiled brightly as she continued, her 
mind intent on the object of her quest: 

“Are visitors allowed at the castle?” 

“Do you mean at Mountheron, Miss? You 
know Lady Cliffbourne does not live there 
now.” 

“True; I had forgotten. No doubt she has 
some relations residing with her?” 

“Yes, I believe there is one — a distant cousin 
— a Mrs. Markham; but she lives quietly. She 
has a maid, Felicia, who has been with her a 
long time; also generally a sort of young lady 
companion. But just now she is without one, 


104 


a life’s labyrinth. 


the person who occupied that position having 
failed in her health.” 

“And is she in need of another?” asked the 
young girl, with a sudden animation. “ 0 Mar- 
jorie, do you think there would be any chance 
for me there? — for it is just the situation I 
desire.” 

“You, Miss!” exclaimed the maid, in surprise. 
“Why, from your appearance and manners, not 
to mention your elegant, quiet-looking attire, one 
would fancy you almost a lady like the one at 
Cliffbourne. Surely you do not need to go out 
as a companion? You can’t be thinking of the 
like?” 

“There is a great and pressing need that I 
should do something of the kind,” replied Con- 
stance. “Until you mentioned the vacancy, I had 
not thought of such a position ; but now I think 
it is the very thing I want. Do you suppose I 
would have a chance?” 

“Isn’t this a whim?” said Marjorie, — “just the 
whim of a young girl, with plenty of time on her 
hands, to see something of high life, as they call 
it? 0 Miss, if it is, I beg of you not to try 
it; for you will not find it all a bed of roses.” 

“Marjorie, I assure you it is a necessity with 
me to accomplish a certain end. I had thought 
of remaining quietly here, with you for a compan- 
ion, for a couple of months, perhaps. But now 


a life’s labyrinth. 


105 


this seems to open a way before me, and I am 
all eagerness to make the effort to obtain the 
position.” 

“If it is money you are needing, Miss — and, by 
all the signs and tokens I see, it can’t be that,— 
a matter of eighty pounds a year or so wouldn’t 
help you much. And that is all you would get 
as a companion. And if it is a whim, as I said 
before— maybe you’re separated from your friends, 
Miss, through some misunderstanding,— I beseech 
you give it over; at the same time asking your 
pardon for being so bold. But I am older than 
you by twenty years at least, and I’ve seen a 
good deal of the world; and if you’ll take my 
advice, you’ll think of it no more.” 

“Maijorie,” said Constance, rising from her 
seat and beginning to walk rapidly up and 
down, “I thank you for your good intentions; 
for they show your true kindness of heart. But 
believe me when I say that if you can put me in 
the way of securing this situation, you will have 
done me a great service. So providential does 
this opportunity seem that I can not help looking 
upon it as a direct answer to prayer.” 

The manner and words of the young girl so 
impressed the maid that she at once replied: 

“Very well, Miss. Let it be as you say. Surely 
you know your own business best. Your face 
and figure, not to mention your manners, ought 


106 


A life’s labyrinth. 


to be enough recommendation to the queen her- 
self; and I’ll be bold enough to say that my 
Lady will be taken with you at once. But, of 
course, references will be wanting.” 

“I can procure at least one excellent reference,” 
said the young girl. “Will that be sufficient?” 

“It ought to be,” answered the maid. 

“And, now, what shall I do — write to Lady 
Cliff bourne or go in person?” 

“I would advise you to go in person.” 

“ There is no doubt but the position is vacant?” 
asked Constance. 

“Not the slightest,” answered Marjorie. “I 
heard it from Felicia, whom I met on High Street 
yesterday, where she was matching wools for her 
ladyship. And there is not much likelihood of its 
being taken ere this; for it isn’t down here in 
Cornwall my Lady would be apt to find many 
of the kind she wants. But if you don’t suit 
her, Miss, I’ll never think my own judgment 
worth anything again.” 

“Then, in the name of God and His ever -blessed 
Mother,” said the young girl, solemnly, “I will 
go to Cliff bourne in the morning.” 

After some further remarks, mistress and maid 
parted for the night. Agitated as she was by 
what had passed, and filled with a new hope, 
which was half a fear, Constance heard the clock 
strike two before she fell asleep. 


CHAPTER IX. 


At ten o’clock on the following morning Con- 
stance ordered a fly; and, after many wishes 
for good luck in her undertaking from the faithful 
Marjorie, on whom she had enjoined silence as 
to the purpose of her journey, she set out for 
Cliffbourne. At the expiration of an hour she 
found herself at the foot of the winding road 
leading up to the castle, which, though of vast 
proportions and ancient appearance, was still of 
a more modern period than Mountheron. 

At the same moment Lady Cliffbourne turned 
to her writing desk to indite her acceptance of 
an invitation to dine and sleep at Mountheron 
on the following day. She had never been inside 
its walls since she had left them, after the fearful 
tragedy which had desolated her life; and she 
had hesitated long before yielding to the urgent 
entreaties of her kinsman-at-law that she should 
visit once more the scene of her happiest and 
most miserable hours. Finally her good judgment 
had prevailed. After the note had been written 
and the servant dismissed, she still sat motionless 
before her desk, her head bent low on her clasped 
hands. She was a very beautiful woman, of 
stately height and figure; her pale, clearly -cut 

107 


108 


a life’s labyrinth. 


features illuminated by deep, dark, melancholy 
eyes; her brow crowned by a wealth of soft 
jet-black hair, whose shining braids, without a 
thread of grey, were wound closely about her 
well -shaped head. 

A light tap on the door interrupted her reverie. 

‘ ‘Come in, Felicia! ” she responded. 

The maid entered. 

“My Lady,” she said, “there is a young woman 
below — a stranger — who wishes to find a situ- 
ation as companion. Will you see her?” 

Lady Cliffbourne reflected a moment before she 
replied : 

“I had no thought of engaging another before 
returning to London; but as that will not be 
for some time, perhaps it may be as well to 
allow her to come up. But first, Felicia — you 
can judge as well as I by outward appearance, — 
does she seem to be a lady?” 

“So much so, my Lady,” was the answer, 
“that I was surprised when Warren told me her 
errand. It’s not every day one sees the like 
of her.” 

“Tell her to come up,” said Lady Cliffbourne. 
“I will see her.” 

Five minutes later the door opened again, and 
Felicia ushered Constance into the presence of her 
mother. The young girl felt as though she must 
swoon when she found herself confronting her of 


A life’s labyrinth. 


109 


whose existence she had been in ignorance so 
short a time previous, and for whom she enter- 
tained a mixture of feelings which she herself 
could not analyze. Her father’s story had filled 
her with indignation, but the recital of Maijorie 
had somewhat softened her previous antagonism. 
And, above all, causing her head to throb violently 
and her heart almost to cease beating in her 
bosom, was the voice of nature that would not 
be stilled, — the cry of the yearning heart that had 
never known a mother’s love. But Constance was 
no ordinary woman : the thought of her father’s 
sufferings, and the purpose of the mission that 
had brought her not only from the shores of 
Greece but even across the threshold of her 
mother’s house, were always uppermost in her 
mind. Any trace of emotion visible in her face — 
and there was but little — might well have been 
attributed to embarrassment, if noticed by the 
keen eyes of the stately woman who now 
addressed her. 

“Be seated,” said Lady Cliffbourne, on whom 
she had at once made a most favorable impres- 
sion. “I did not catch your name.” 

“It is Strange — Constance Strange,” replied 
the young girl, in a low voice, as she raised her 
large beautiful eyes to those of the mistress of 
Cliffbourne. 

A shade of sadness passed over the features of 


110 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


Lady Cliff bourne,— that name had touched her 
heart. 

“Have you ever occupied the position of com- 
panion before? ” she inquired, feeling certain that 
she had not, so fresh and sweet, so untouched by 
contact with the world, was the young face of 
this beautiful girl. 

“ Never,’ ’ replied Constance; “but I have under- 
stood that the duties are such as any one of 
refinement and education could fulfil.” 

“And you have both,” said Lady Cliff bourne, 
emphatically. “Your English, however, has a 
slightly foreign accent, and one not familiar to 
me, who have lived much on the Continent. Were 
you educated abroad?” 

“In Greece, my Lady,” was the reply. 

“You were born there ? ” 

“No, my Lady: I was born in England, but my 
father has lived abroad for many years.” 

“Is he still living?” 

“Yes, my Lady. He is in Greece.” 

“And you are here? You have your mother— 
in England?” 

“I have never known my mother,” said the 
girl, dropping her eyes. 

“Do you read French?” 

“I read and speak it fairly well.” 

“And German?” 

“Yes, my Lady.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


Ill 


“I presume you play the piano ?” 

“Yes, my Lady.” 

“Any other instrument?” 

“The guitar, my Lady.” 

“Do you sing also?” 

“Yes, my Lady.” 

“You embroider, no doubt? I ask you this 
because you will often have a great deal of leisure, 
if you come to me; and part of that time I 
should like you to spend, if you are capable, in 
embroidering vestments for the chapel.” 

“I was taught to embroider by a famous Greek 
needlewoman, my Lady,” answered Constance. 
“She excelled in that kind of work, and I like 
it exceedingly.” 

“You are not a Greek Catholic?” 

“No, my Lady. I am a Roman Catholic.” 

“Ah ! that is well,” exclaimed Lady Cliff bourne, 
drawn still more strongly by the kinship of faith 
toward the young girl, in whom she began to 
feel an extraordinary interest. Taking a couple 
of books from the table, she opened one. “Read 
me a page of this,” she said. “I am often sleep- 
less; and one of your duties would be a half 
hour’s reading at bedtime, should I desire it.’’ 

Constance read a page with great ease and 
expression. 

“You have a perfect French accent,” said Lady 
Cliff bourne. “By whom were j^ou taught?” 


112 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“By Madame Courlange- Gauthier, who lived 
near us for several years, and who now has a 
school in Paris.” 

“I have heard of her; her school has an excellent 
reputation. And now a little German, if you 
please.” 

Constance obeyed, reading half of the first 
chapter of “Undine,” which Lady Cliffbourne 
placed in her hands. 

“Good ! ” was the verdict. “Not quite as perfect 
as your French, but far above the ordinary. Who 
taught you German?” 

“My father.” 

“Will you play something for me?” 

Constance went to the open piano. One of 
Chopin’s “First Nocturnes” lay open upon it. 
She played it with great delicacy and feeling, 
showing much practice and wonderful command 
of the instrument. 

“Now will you not sing me something? ” asked 
Lady Cliffbourne. 

Without demurring in the least, simply and 
naturally as she had done all else that had been 
required of her, Constance sang a Hungarian 
gipsy song. She had a beautiful voice, strong, 
sweet and clear, — a voice that was full of 
possibilities. 

“ Do you know any English or Scotch ballads ? ” 
said Lady Cliffbourne. 


a life’s labyrinth. 


113 


She answered with “Highland Mary.” 

When she had finished tears stood in Lady 
Cliffbourne’s eyes. She laid her hand on the 
young girl’s shoulder. 

“My dear child,” she asked, “who taught you 
to play and sing?” 

“My father,” answered Constance, in a voice 
full of emotion, which could not pass unobserved 
by Lady Cliff bourne. 

“Pardon me!” she said impulsively. “You 
seem to be greatly moved. Your father must 
be a man of uncommon talent. Tell me, child, 
is it necessity that has parted you from him?” 

For a moment her feelings overcame the lonely 
girl. 

“Ah! ” she exclaimed, “could aught else separate 
me from so good a father, from my only friend? ” 

Lady Cliffbourne turned away, unable to 
conceal her own emotion, even while she was 
surprised at it. Now for the first time did she 
address one who was lonely and friendless; she 
had even fancied herself cold, but now she found 
herself deeply and unaccountably moved. It was 
with an effort that she resumed her usual calm 
exterior, saying, almost abruptly : 

“You have references, of course?” 

“One, that I can furnish from Paris, — that of 
Mme. Courlange-Gauthier. Will it be sufficient? 
If not, I can soon obtain others from Corinth.” 


114 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“ One will be enough. Have yon it with you? ” 

“No, my Lady. I had not contemplated this 
step when I left home, therefore I did not provide 
myself. But I can have it in a few days, at 
farthest.” 

“When can you come?” 

“Whenever you wish.” 

“Very well; let it be the day after to-morrow. 
I presume there will be no difficulty about the 
reference.” 

“If your ladyship is not in a hurry, I would 
prefer to wait until it arrives.” 

“I am in no hurry. My time for the remainder 
of this week will be much occupied abroad ; there- 
fore it will be as well if you do not come until 
Monday. I had almost forgotten,— your salary 
will be £100 a year. Does that satisfy you?” 

“Yes, my Lady,” said Constance; after a 
moment’s hesitation, she added: “Shall I ever 
be required to make my appearance in the draw- 
ing-room? ” 

“Does the idea frighten you?” queried Lady 
Cliff bourne, with a smile. “You will occasionally 
be expected to come down, to play accompan- 
iments or take part in a song, — perhaps to sing 
us one of your own pretty, foreign songs, of 
which, I am sure, you have a quantity in reserve. 
You may also be wanted now and then to make 
up a rubber. Do you play whist?” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


115 


“No, my Lady,” was the reply. 

“I believe it is the sole accomplishment you 
lack, Miss Strange,” said Lady Cliff bourne, 
playfully; “and that you will soon learn; for 
nowadays the younger set at least make but a 
pretence at card - playing. You have suitable 
gowns, of course?” she continued, glancing at the 
neat, well-fitting attire of her future companion. 

“I think so,” answered Constance, simply. 
“My old friend in Paris saw to that.” 

“Very well; I believe that is all. I shall expect 
you on Monday, after luncheon.” 

She touched the bell, and in a moment Con- 
stance was following Felicia down the stairs. 

On her return, after announcing the success of 
her errand to Marjorie, who was pleased to see 
her pleased, while sad at the prospect of leaving 
her so soon, she wrote at once to Paris and also 
to her father, to whom she communicated only 
the news that she had seen his ancestral home 
and that of her mother; that she was content 
and hopeful, awaiting the opportunity that she 
knew must come, sooner or later, in answer to 
her fervent prayers. She thought it best not to 
enlighten him further until her progress was 
assured. 

Slowly the week wore away. It seemed to 
Constance that never had days been so long as 
those which intervened between the present and 


116 


a life’s labyrinth. 


the future, which she regarded with alternate 
hope and fear. 

On Monday morning the letter came from Paris. 
Her old teacher made no comments on this unex- 
pected turn in the affairs of her former pupil; 
being a woman of wisdom and experience, she 
knew that nothing but an unusual extremity 
would call for so unusual an undertaking. There- 
fore she contented herself with wishing Constance 
well, sending a very strong letter of recommenda- 
tion for Lady Cliffbourne. 

About two in the afternoon, having paid her 
bill and bidden adieu to her kind hostess, dis- 
missing good Marjorie Goff, who could not help 
thinking there was some mystery connected with 
the whole affair, Constance once more took her 
seat in the village fly, and departed for Cliff- 
bourne. Upon her arrival she was received at 
once by Lady Cliffbourne, who treated her with 
great kindness. After reading the letter from 
Paris, which she pronounced satisfactory in every 
respect, she summoned Felicia, requesting her to 
show Miss Strange to her apartments; at the 
same time telling her that it was possible she 
might be wanted after dinner in the drawing- 
room to play some accompaniments, and that she 
had better don a simple evening dress in order to 
be prepared for the summons. 

“Until then you will be free to follow your own 


a life’s labyrinth. 


117 


desires,” she said. '‘No doubt you will like to 
arrange your belongings, in which Felicia will 
assist you. After that you may read, take a nap, 
walk about the grounds — do anything you like, 
Miss Strange.” 

Thanking her ladyship, the young girl followed 
the maid down a long corridor, and up a short 
flight of steps, when they came to a pleasant 
suite of rooms. The pretty sitting-room was 
charmingly furnished, containing a bookcase filled 
with choice volumes, and a cottage piano. The 
bedchamber was also beautifully arranged. The 
windows of both looked on the park; and Con- 
stance felt, as she gazed upon the broad expanse 
stretched out before her, that so far as her bodily 
comfort was concerned, her lines had indeed fallen 
in pleasant places. 

With the aid of Felicia she very soon arranged 
her wardrobe; for her boxes were neither numer- 
ous nor heavy. As she placed the various articles 
of clothing in the drawers and closets, the astute 
maid noticed, with some surprise, the excellent 
quality of the material. 

A daintily carved bracket hung between the 
long windows of the bedroom. Upon this bracket 
Constance placed a beautiful ivory statuette 
of Our Lady which had been her companion as 
long as she could remember. 

After Felicia had departed she sat for some time 


118 


a life’s labyrinth. 


at the window, occupied with grave and anxious 
thoughts. A sudden collapse of the courage which 
had upborne her thus far seemed to threaten her 
strained nerves; but now, as always, she sought 
strength in prayer. Throwing herself on her 
knees before the statue of Our Lady, she soon 
felt her heart comforted and her fortitude 
renewed. 

The shades of twilight found Constance still 
praying; the sound of the dressing-bell aroused 
her. Taking a simple white muslin gown, of 
exquisite texture, from the wardrobe, she made 
a hasty toilet. Dinner was served in her sitting- 
room. After she had finished she took a book 
from the shelves, and thus an hour passed away. 
She was beginning to hope that she might not 
have to face the ordeal of meeting strange faces 
for this night, at least. But just as she was thus 
congratulating herself the door was pushed gently 
ajar and Felicia entered. 

“My Lady wishes Miss Strange to come to the 
drawing-room,” she said. “Does Mademoiselle 
wish to make any change in her dress, — a ribbon 
in her hair perhaps, or something of the kind?” 

Constance felt her heart beat violently: but, 
with the eyes of the Frenchwoman upon her, she 
did not fail to preserve her usual composure. She 
replied, smilingly: 

“Shall I not do as I am?” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


119 


“Onemoment, with Mademoiselle’s permission,” 
said Felicia. 

Stepping to the dressing-case, she opened a 
couple of dawers, taking from one a soft wide 
blue sash, of the finest Smyrna silk; from the 
other a delicately wrought ivory comb, studded 
here and there with small turquoises. 

After quickly tying the sash in a graceful bow 
around the waist of the young girl, and placing 
the comb among the magnificent braids of her 
soft hair, Felicia pronounced her ready for the 
drawing-room. 

About five minutes later Constance was enter- 
ing the long apartment, conscious only of what 
seemed a sea of strange faces and a buzz of 
pleasantly modulated conversation. Fortunately, 
Lady Cliffbourne, who had been expecting her, 
caught sight of her at once, advancing some 
steps to meet her. Lady Cliffbourne had thought 
her lovely at the first moment of their meeting, 
but to-night in the beautiful simplicity of her 
evening attire, she felt a keen pang that one so 
favored by nature in every respect should be 
obliged by circumstances to occupy a dependent 
position. She had an aesthetic nature: beauty 
pleased her in all its forms. The sight of the 
young girl before her gave her an exquisite 
pleasure. There was something more cordial 
than mere politeness in the manner with which 


120 


A life’s labyrinth. 


she took her by the hand, saying to a middle- 
aged lady in black lace, with whom she had been 
talking : 

“This is Miss Strange, Lady Markham. Miss 
Strange, Lady Markham, my cousin, who resides 
with me. You will have ample opportunity to 
become acquainted.” 

Constance bowed courteously, Lady Markham 
with some stiffness. Naturally of a suspicious 
temperament, she deprecated the conjunction of 
beauty and dependence. 

With her quick intuition, Constance instantly 
felt that she was being unfavorably criticised by 
Lady Cliff bourne’s kinswoman. But she had not 
much time to dwell on the thought ; for, suddenly 
lifting her eyes to the long mirror opposite, her 
cheeks grew white with a sudden pallor as she 
recognized Lord Kingscourt not ten feet from 
where she stood, engaged in conversation with 
a gentleman much older than himself, whom she 
felt certain — she knew not why — was the present 
Marquis of Mountheron. For a moment the 
blood surged from heart to brain; she feared she 
must faint; she longed to ask permission to 
retire. But once more her good sense weighted 
the balance. Better, she thought, to face the 
inevitable at once than to have it indefinitely 
awaiting her. No one present could have divined 
the tumult which filled her soul as, thankful that, 


A life’s labyrinth. 


121 


for the time being at least, Lord Kingscourt had 
not seen her, Constance turned to Lady Cliff- 
bourne with a few commonplace words. 

As soon as she could slip away without 
being observed, she sank upon a cushioned 
window - seat, behind a friendly curtain, to 
collect her thoughts. Lady Markham, narrowly 
watching her, had at once observed the swift 
change which overspread her countenance, and 
all her quick senses were immediately on the 
alert. In the suspicious mind and jealous heart 
of this woman, the beauty and grace of the 
young girl were factors not only against her 
respectability, but also against the tenure and 
peace of mind of the obscure companion living on 
sufferance with the more fortunate mistress of 
Cliffbourne. 

Poor Constance had unwittingly made for 
herself an enemy on the first day of her sojourn 
in her new home. As she sat in the embrasure of 
the window, nerving herself for the meeting which 
she knew was near, a hand lifted the curtain. It 
was that of Lady Markham, who exclaimed : 

“Ah, here she is! My dear, Lady Cliffbourne 
wishes to introduce you to some of her 
guests.” 

Constance at once arose and stepped into the 
light. 

“Miss Strange,” said the voice of Lady Cliff- 


122 


a life’s labyrinth. 


bourne, “my cousin, Sir Roland Ingestre. Lord 
Kingscourt.” 

Timidly lifting Her beautiful eyes, they met those 
of Lord Kingscourt, full of surprise and joy. Bui: 
in that one swift, imploring glance he read the 
entreaty of her soul. Entirely preserving his self- 
possession, he avoided all recognition, murmuring 
the usual formula on such occasions. But his 
hand trembled, and Lady Markham observed it; 
she had also seen the expression of Constance’s 
eyes, and she said to herself: 

“They do not meet here for the first time, — she 
has known him before.” 

Lady Cliffbourne moved away, accompanied by 
the gentlemen; Lady Markham followed, and 
once more Constance sat alone. Now and again 
she would see the tall form of Lord Kingscourt 
moving through the rooms, but he never glanced 
toward her; one moment thanking him for his 
observance of her mute request, the next fearing, 
with a pang, that this studied avoidance meant 
inconstancy and indifference. She knew not 
whether she had been sitting there hours or 
minutes when she became conscious that Lady 
Markham had taken a seat beside her, and was 
saying, in a sweetly modulated tone: 

“It is not at all customary, as you no doubt 
are aware, Miss Strange, for a mere companion 
to be introduced to evening guests; but Lady 


a life’s labyrinth. 


123 


Cliffbourne Has departed from ordinary usage in 
such matters for two reasons. In the first place, 
you will be likely to meet the Marquis and Lord 
Kingscourt frequently, as both are intimate in 
the household ; moreover, it seems that the 
Marquis was attracted by your very distin- 
guished appearance, and asked to be presented. 
When informed that you were not a guest, he 
was complimentary enough to say that you 
ought to be, and insisted on being presented 
immediately.” 

The slight stratum of truth underlying the last 
assertion of Lady Markham had its foundation 
in a remark of the Marquis earlier in the evening. 
He had said to Lady Cliffbourne: “What an 
extraordinarily pretty girl is that yonder! Pray 
present me, Alicia.” His hostess had done so at 
once; and Lord Kingscourt being on the spot, 
was introduced at the same time. 

Although Constance perceived the insult hidden 
under Lady Markham’s remark, feeling instinc- 
tively that it must have been actuated by enmity, 
it did not have the effect on her mind that would 
have ensued at another time. Her distress at the 
present situation was so great that it banished 
all minor troubles. 

“The Marquis was very kind,” she said, quietly; 
“Lady Cliffbourne also. I desire only to be 
treated as is usual in my position. Were my own 


124 


A life’s labyeinth. 


wishes alone to be consulted, I should prefer not 
to be presented to any one. I can perform my 
necessary duties in the drawing-room without 
special introduction to Lady Cliffbourne’s friends ; 
and those duties accomplished, slip away to my 
own room unnoticed.” 

She spoke very gently, as her heart prompted, 
in all sincerity. But the woman beside her, 
familiar with another world than that in which 
Constance had been taught, could not understand 
such simplicity. To her prejudiced mind it was 
but another evidence of deceit. 

“The girl is an adventuress, a finished actress,” 
thought she, rising to meet Lady Cliffbourne, 
who was approaching. 

“My dear Miss Strange,” said Lady Cliffbourne, 
“I have been watching you from afar. You are 
looking very pale. There is no necessity that 
you should remain downstairs. We shall get on 
very well — if indeed we have any music to-night; 
which I doubt, as three of our musical guests 
have disappointed us. If you wish to take a turn 
in the garden before going to your room, I will 
ring for Felicia, — she can accompany you. A little 
fresh air will be pleasant after these hot, crowded 
rooms.” 

“Thank you very much, my Lady!” replied 
Constance, with a sigh of relief. “I do feel 
unusually fatigued to-night. But I am sure a 


a life’s labyrinth. 


125 


good sleep will find me ready for duty to-morrow. 
With your permission, I will retire at once. I 
do not think I care to walk in the garden this 
evening.” 

“Excuse me, Miss Strange ! ” said a voice behind 
her. “But I happened to hear Lady Cliff bourne’s 
advice, which was most excellent, as her counsels 
invariably are. If you and she will allow me, 
I shall be glad to take you into the garden for 
a few moments. You look as though you were 
about to faint. Have we your permission, Lady 
Cliff bourne? ” 

“Certainly, with all my heart,” was the reply. 
Taking a large, soft, fleecy wrap from the back 
of a chair near her, she herself wrapped it about 
the head and shoulders of the young girl. Then 
lifting her small white hand she placed it on the 
Earl’s arm, saying: “Only fifteen minutes, Lord 
Kingscourt. The evenings are damp, and Miss 
Strange is fatigued.” 

Trembling in every limb, yet able, through the 
whirl of many emotions, to cast a grateful glance 
into the kindly eyes that looked upon her from 
the beautiful face of Lady Cliffbourne, the next 
moment Constance heard the great hall door 
close behind them, and found herself alone in the 
garden with Lord Kingscourt. He was not slow 
to speak. 

“Alice!” he exclaimed, “tell me, what is the 


126 


a life’s labyrinth. 


meaning of this? Why are you here? Where 
is your father? How long have you been in 
England ? ” 

“ I am here for a purpose that I can not reveal,” 
she answered. “My father is still in Greece, where 
you left him.” 

“ What! ” cried the Earl. “You can not confide 
even in me ? Do you think, then, that my feelings 
toward you have changed since the day I parted 
from you in that idyllic spot where I first learned 
to love you? Did you not know that if circum- 
stances called you away from that father who 
but a few short months ago said that you should 
never come to England, I would indeed have been 
overjoyed to welcome you? Did you think my 
love so paltry a thing as not to have survived 
that brief separation ? Or is it, perhaps, that your 
feeling for me was but a fancy? Alice, speak!” 

She lifted her hand in the moonlight, so that 
he might see the ring upon her finger. 

“Let that be my answer to your last question, 
Lord Kingscourt,” she said. “Not a day has 
passed since I have worn it but that I have felt it 
the sweetest of bonds between you and me. A 
bond of prayer, too, it has proved, strengthened 
and sanctified from hour to hour. Ah! you can 
not know what that Rosary ring has been to me ; 
for since we parted I have known much care and 
sorrow.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


127 


“Your words are like the very dew from 
heaven,” said the Earl. “Uncertain how to 
act, unwilling to renounce you, unable to decide 
upon any course of action which would alter the 
stern decision of your father, my mind has been 
at sea with regard to the whole sad business. 
Only yesterday I had resolved to return to Greece 
in a fortnight, seek your father again, and implore 
him to let me know the nature of the obstacle 
which he so vehemently declared must separate 
us forever. I am satisfied he is the victim ol 
some error, brooding over which has made him 
timid, perhaps causing him to exaggerate its 
importance.” 

“My poor father!” said Constance. “He is 
indeed the victim not of an error, but a crime. 
Until after your departure I was ignorant of the 
cause of his enforced exile from England ; but now 
I know it, and only too well can I appreciate that 
there exists a barrier to our affection than which 
nothing could be stronger.” 

“And may I not know it?” asked the Earl. 

“Alas ! no,” was the reply. “ It is our miserable 
secret — my father’s and mine.” 

“Should not love and confidence go together, 
Alice?” 

“They should, indeed,” she answered. “But 
there are reasons why I can not tell you the 
mystery of our lives. I have a duty to perform, 


128 


a life’s labyrinth. 


but it must be done alone, without help save that 
which comes from God.” 

“And is this why you are in England?” 
y “Yes, that is why I am here.” 

“But why as a dependent, — why in the humble 
position of a companion, — you who are fitted by 
your beauty and education to rule, to take your 
place among the best and proudest and fairest ol 
Englishwomen ? ” 

“You flatter me, Lord Kingscourt,” said 
Constance, smiling for the first time. “I can 
only say that it is necessary that I should be 
a dependent.” 

“Your father has lost money recently, then?” 

Constance did not reply. 

“Ah! I see now. You are here on that account 
—hoping to aid him in pecuniary difficulties. But 
do you not realize, my dear, simple girl, that your 
assistance, situated as you now are, must count 
for almost nothing? The pitiful salary of a 
companion — ” 

“Make no conjectures, I beseech you,” inter- 
rupted Constance. “ Only trust me. Believe that 
I am here for a good purpose,— on an errand that 
no one but myself can perform.” 

“Why did your father not come with you, or 
even himself without you?” 

“Ah! do not question me, I implore you,” 
pleaded Constance. “Only, as I said before, trust 


A life’s labyrinth. 


129 


me; and, with the help of God, all will be well.” 

“I feel that I am a brute to harass you thus,” 
said the Earl, with sudden compunction, as he 
looked into her eyes. “Trust you I will, I must; 
but it tears my heart to see you in such a 
position.” 

“And you will keep my secret inviolably, — not 
intimating in any way that we have met before ? ” 

“I will; although it is a difficult task you 
assign me, and dissimulation was never my 
forte.” 

Constance smiled once more. 

“How strange it is,” she observed, “that we 
should have met here! I have imagined many 
situations, but never this. You know Lady 
Cliff bourne well?” 

“Know her well! She has been like a mother 
to me.” 

“She is not old?” 

“No. But I should have qualified my remark. 
My own mother loved her tenderly, and, after the 
terrible tragedy which darkened her life, became 
the instrument of her conversion to the Church. 
When my mother died I turned to her for consola- 
tion and friendship; she has given me freely of 
both. If you had not come upon the scene when 
you did, I have no doubt but that I would have 
confided our story to her, and asked her advice as 
to my course. She is a wise and a good woman.” 


130 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“You knew Her husband? ” inquired Constance, 
in a low voice. 

“I scarcely remember him. I was but a little 
lad when he — when the sad affair occurred.” 

“Then you have no theory as to his guilt?” 
pursued the girl. 

“I have seldom thought of it. But I remember 
to have heard my mother say that his wife never 
believed him guilty, and that she herself was 
inclined to share the same opinion.” 

“I heard, I think, that he is dead.” 

“So it is generally supposed, — drowned, I believe. 
He was suspected of having stolen the little girl 
from her mother; but I can not think Lord 
Stratford to have been such a monster.” 

“And the child was really stolen?” 

“Stolen, and never found. Yes, Lady Cliff- 
bourne has known many sorrows, and grief has 
ennobled her. How glad I am, when all is said, 
that your lines have been cast here! She is, in 
many respects, the most unconventional woman 
I have ever known. My darling Alice, your sweet 
face will soon be a passport to her tender heart.” 

“Her kindness has touched me already,” said 
Constance; “although before seeing her I was 
prejudiced. The fact that she had deserted her 
husband in his misfortune spoke strongly against 
her.” 

“She did not desert him!” answered Lord 


A life’s labyrinth. 


131 


Kingscotirt. “The law tore him away from her. 
In those days she was young and inexperienced, 
and entirely under the control of her father, who 
had a will of iron.” 

“Poor lady!” ejaculated Constance, with a 
sigh. “But we are far from the house, and 
must return.” 

“When shall I see you again?” inquired the 
Earl, anxiously. “I seem to have said nothing 
yet.” 

“The truest kindness you can show me here 
will be to avoid me,” said Constance. 

“To avoid you!” exclaimed the Earl. 

“At least do not seek me out. It must embar- 
rass both of us, and might do me great harm.” 

“You are right,” was the reply. “But may I 
ask how long is this state of affairs to continue? ” 

“That I can not tell you,” said the girl. “Pray 
that it may not be long.” 

As she spoke a shadow fell across the path in 
front of them, and a female form enveloped in a 
large cloak emerged from a side path. Much to 
her chagrin, Lady Markham had taken a wrong 
course in her endeavor to follow the young pair, 
and listen to their conversation. As she came face 
to face with them she said : 

“Miss Strange, I have been solicitous about 
you.” 

“Thank you, Lady Markham!” replied the 


132 


A life’s labyrinth. 


young girl. “We were about to go in.” Then, 
turning to Lord Kingscourt, she said, politely 
but coldly: “Good-night, my Lord!” And, 
tripping up the steps with a carelessness she 
did not feel, Constance entered the house and 
went at once to her room. 

After Lady Cliffbourne’s guests had departed, 
and, having dismissed her maid, she was alone 
for the night, she heard a light tapping at her 
door. She opened it to Lady Markham, who 
entered cautiously. 

“Where is Felicia?” she asked, looking about her. 

“She has retired,” was the reply. 

“I wished to be sure of no listeners,” continued 
Lady Markham. 

“Why, what is the matter, Caroline?” inquired 
Lady Cliffbourne. 

“That girl— Miss Strange,” answered the other. 
“You have made a mistake, Alicia. She is not 
what she seems to be.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ Can you not see that she is in a false position? 
A companion, forsooth! She is here for another 
purpose.” 

“Caroline, you have no grounds for such 
suspicions, I am confident. For what purpose 
could she be here?” 

“That I do not know. But she and Lord 
Kingscourt have met before.” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


133 


“I think you are mistaken.” 

“I watched her. I saw recognition in the eyes 
of both. She grew pale as death when she saw 
him first.” 

“She was fatigued. I saw no change in his 
manner.” 

“But you observed, no doubt, that he offered 
to take her into the garden?” 

“Lord Kingscourt is nothing if not unconven- 
tional. He would have done the same for any 
one — for an old apple -woman, if she needed the 
fresh air.” 

“Alicia, I have not lived forty -five years in 
the world for nothing. You have taken an 
adventuress into your household.” 

“I am willing to face the risks,” replied Lady 
Cliff bourne, somewhat impatiently. “If honor 
and innocence do not dwell in the soul of that 
young girl, then I have never known them. It is 
late, Caroline,” she added; “you had better go 
to bed.” 

Feeling herself abruptly dismissed, Lady Mark- 
ham departed, but not without a farewell 
thrust. 

“Remember, Alicia,” she said, “a day will come 
when you will repent not having heeded my 
warning. Miss Strange is not what she seems 
to be.” 

After she had gone, Lady Cliffbourne stood by 


134 


a life’s labyrinth. 


the fire, looking dreamily into the dying coals. 
The warning of her officious kinswoman had not 
produced the slightest effect on her mind, but it 
had directed her thoughts to the young girl now 
resting in peace and security beneath her roof. 

After a while, following an impulse which she 
could not resist, she took up a candle, softly 
opened the door, crossed the corridor, and walked 
noiselessly down the little passage which led to 
Miss Strange’s rooms. All was darkness. Very 
gently she turned the knob of the bedroom door 
and entered. The last rays of the waning moon 
shone through the window, falling upon the sweet 
face of Constance, calmly sleeping, worn out by 
the excitement of the past day. 

“It is the face of an angel,” murmured Lady 
Cliff bourne; and, stooping, she imprinted a light 
kiss upon the white forehead framed in soft 
tendrils of golden hair. Then, gliding from the 
room without a sound, she sought her own 
chamber. 


CHAPTER X. 


At eleven o’clock next morning Felicia came to 
say to Constance that Lady Alicia Cliffbourne 
desired her attendance in her boudoir. 

Lady Cliffbourne greeted the young girl kindly, 
asking if she had slept well. Having received an 
affirmative reply, she said: 

“I have a slight headache. Will you please read 
to me a little? ” — indicating a book which lay on 
the table. 

So saying she sought the depths of a luxurious 
chair, and, throwing her head back, seemed to 
close her eyes. But through the parted lids she 
watched the expressive face of Constance ; finding 
in her manner of reading, sitting, the poise of her 
head, the taste of her attire, the grace and dignity 
of her whole appearance, nothing to criticise, but 
everything to admire. She felt strangely drawn 
toward her. The lonely heart of the childless 
woman is the same whether she be peasant or 
princess; and as Lady Cliffbourne looked at 
Constance, she thought: 

“Just about her age would my darling be if she 
had lived. Ah ! how different would have been the 
circumstances of her existence! Surrounded by 
luxury, sheltered by protecting care from every 

135 


136 


a life’s labyrinth. 


adverse wind, what a contrast her life would have 
been to that of this fair creature, than whom she 
could not have been more lovelv! Nay, even her 
personal appearance would have been much the 
same, if she fulfilled the promise of her babyhood. 
Eyes, hair, complexion were identical.” 

She heard not a word of the reading : her soul 
was lost in the sadness of retrospection, her heart 
full of sympathy. A light tap at the door aroused 
her. Lady Markham entered in her accustomed 
noiseless manner. 

“ Good -morning, Miss Strange ! ” she said. “Ah !’ 
are you ill, Alicia?” 

“I have a slight headache,” was the reply, 
“Miss Strange has been reading to me.” 

“By the way, Miss Strange,” continued Lady 
Markham, speaking slowly and indifferently, as 
though it were a matter of slight importance, 
“I understand you and Lord Kingscourt have 
met before — probably in Greece, as he has just 
returned from there.” 

“From whom have you learned it?” inquired 
Constance, flushing slightly, as was natural, 
but thoroughly on her guard. “Not from Lord 
Kingscourt, surely?” 

“It seemed to me that either he or the Marquis 
— I have an impression” — Lady Markham hesi- 
tated, checked in her designing course by a sharp 
glance from Lady Cliffbourne. Then she added 


A life’s labyrinth. 


137 


hastily, as she prepared to depart : “It may have 
been erroneous, of course.” 

“I think it must have been,” observed Con- 
stance, quietly, her self-possession fully re-estab- 
lished. 

“If you will kindly excuse us,” said Lady 
Cliff bourne, “I have something for Miss Strange 
to do this morning.” 

“Oh, certainly, certainly!” was the reply. “I 
merely looked in to say good -morning.” And 
Lady Markham betook herself to her own apart- 
ments with what grace she could. 

No sooner had the door closed upon her than 
Lady Cliff bourne said, abruptly : 

“My dear Miss Strange, Lady Markham is not 
without her virtues, but she has also some very 
reprehensible faults, one of which is that of 
suspicion. Her manner toward those whom she 
considers her inferiors is not always what it 
should be; therefore you may sometimes feel her 
shafts. But forewarned is forearmed ; I beg that 
you will not notice these eccentricities. Now, if 
you please, w r e will resume our reading.” 

But, instead of opening her book, the young 
girl did that which Lady Alicia had, by a kind of 
instinct, anticipated she would do. The moment 
Lady Markham had uttered the name of Lord 
Kingscourt she had noticed a peculiar expression 
on the face of Constance, and she felt at once that 


138 


a life’s labyrinth. 


lie was not a stranger to her. Her sentiment was 
that of entire trust in the young stranger; so 
complete was it that she felt it should also beget 
'confidence and trust in return. Therefore it seemed 
but a natural sequence of her thoughts when the 
young girl lifted her pleading eyes. 

“Lady Cliff bourne, may I confide in you?” she 
asked. 

“You may, my dear child, with perfect freedom,” 
was the answer. “ Come sit near me, on this low 
divan, and tell me anything — everything you 
wish.” 

Constance obeyed, seating herself beside Lady 
Cliffbourne, still reclining in the deeply-cushioned 
chair. Her color came and went, whilst her 
heart beat rapidly. How could she so control 
her thoughts as to leave unsaid much that should 
be concealed, — to measure the extent of the con- 
fidence she was about to repose in the mistress 
whom she must for the present dissociate from 
the relationship of mother ! There was a moment 
of silence; then, reassured by the gentle regard 
in the beautiful eyes of the expectant listener, she 
began : 

“Lady Cliffbourne, though there may seem to 
be an air of mystery and reserve about my life 
and actions, believe me there is nothing of which 
I have reason to be ashamed. It was my purpose 
when I came here to say absolutely nothing of 


A life’s labyrinth. 


139 


myself or my father; but circumstances have 
occurred which, I think, render it necessary that 
I should, to some extent, break that resolution. 
Last night, before I slept, I had resolved to tell 
you that for which the remark of Lady Markham 
has just paved the way. My nature is foreign to 
concealment. There is really no reason why I 
should not tell you that I have met Lord Kings- 
court before,— that I knew him in Greece. If he 
did not so inform you last evening after I had 
retired, it was because I had adjured him not to 
do so. Now I see that I committed an error.” 

“You have done wisely in telling me this,” said 
Lady Cliff bourne. “I can see no reason why you 
should wish to conceal so simple a fact; and in 
concealing it there might have been — complica- 
tions.” 

Constance flushed, and looked earnestly at 
Lady Cliffbourne. Could she have suspected their 
relations? But her face told nothing. She was 
about to continue when Lady Cliffbourne spoke 
again. 

“Doubtless you know the story of Lord Kings- 
court’s recent adventures, if you met him in 
Greece? You were travelling, no doubt, when 
you became acquainted?” 

“No,” answered Constance: “it was in my 
own home.” 

“Ah! ” ejaculated her listener. “Before or after 


140 


A life’s labyrinth. 


his experience with the robbers? You know the 
story?” 

“Yes: I know all the particulars.” 

“About his having been rescued by a young 
peasant girl from the robber band, his subsequent 
illness, etc.?” 

“Yes, I know it all. Did you hear the story 
from Lord Kingscourt?” 

“Only at second hand. My cousin, the Marquis, 
related it one evening in his presence, no doubt 
with exaggerations ; but I gathered the main 
facts, I think. He is the hero of the hour at 
present.” 

“It was in my father’s house that Lord Kings- 
court lay ill for some months,” said Constance. 

“In your father’s house!” exclaimed Lady 
Cliff bourne, sitting erect. “How did I get the 
impression that it was in the dwelling of a 
peasant? ” 

Constance remained silent. 

Lady Cliffbourne took the hand of the young 
girl in her own. 

“My child,” she said, “I am a woman of 
experience. Had she lived, I would have been 
the mother of a girl about your age, bearing your 
very name. Whether you have been imprudent 
or not, confide in me, and I will advise you for 
the best. Tell me, is it because of Lord Kings- 
court that you are here?” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


141 


“No!” answered Constance, proudly. “My 
purpose in coming to England is so far removed 
from any connection with Lord Kingscourt that 
I never dreamed of meeting him ; although, in the 
natural order of things, such a contingency was 
not impossible.” Tears choked her utterance as 
she added : “Ah ! my Lady, if you had but known 
me a little longer and a little better, you could 
never have asked me that question.” 

“Pardon me, dear child ! ” said Lady Cliff bourne. 
“But you are young; and, not having had a 
mother’s care, I thought you might be, perhaps, 
in some things untrained. And, then, Lord 
Kingscourt has everything to tempt ambition 
and inspire affection. To have loved him would 
have been no sin, and — ” 

“To have followed him would have been some- 
thing impossible to Constance Strange!” inter- 
rupted the young girl, proudly. “It is on my 
father’s account that I am here, — my darling 
father, who dared not himself undertake the 
mission that I hope to perform.” 

“Poor, motherless child!” cried Lady Cliff- 
bourne. “Once more, forgivfe me if I have 
wounded you unthinkingly. And will you not 
tell me the purpose of that mission?” 

“I can not,” said Constance, — “at least not 
now. Some day, should I succeed, you will know, 
as all the world may know. If I fail — if I fail — 


142 


A life’s labyrinth. 


alas! in that case shall you know it also. Only 
God can foresee that, my Lady,— only God.” 

Lady Cliffbourne was deeply moved. Passing 
her hand caressingly over the forehead of the 
young girl, she said : 

“May He assist you in your work, my child, 
whatever it may be ! Later, as you come to know 
me better, I trust you will tell me all. Now I 
will not press you, and I thank you for the 
confidence you have given me this morning. It 
has proved that my perfect trust in you was not 
ill-founded. Is Lord Kingscourt aware that you 
were to tell me of your acquaintance with him? ” 

“No, my Lady,” answered Constance, smiling 
through a mist of tears. “Only last night I 
exacted from him a promise that he would not 
speak of it. But, on second thought, I felt it best 
to inform you. Now, of course, I shall tell him 
at the first opportunity what I have done.” 

“You do not mind my speaking of it to him? ” 
asked Lady Cliffbourne. 

“Not at all,” answered Constance. “And now 
that you know this little secret, my heart is 
relieved of some of its burthen.” 

“Would that I might be able to lighten it still 
further!” said Lady Cliffbourne, surprised at her 
own emotion. “Somehow, I feel that I shall yet 
be of assistance to you. But go now to your own 
room, and come to us at luncheon to-day. We 


a life’s labyrinth. 


143 


shall have Lord Kingscourt and the Marquis, — 
quite a family party. May I call you Constance ? ” 
Lady Cliffbourne went on. “Though I have 
known you so short a time, I feel that I already 
know you well. I am a lonely woman, and once 
I had a little one whose name was also Con- 
stance. May I call you so?” 

“0 my Lady, yes, yes!” cried the girl, clasping 
Lady Cliffbourne’s hand in her own with a pas- 
sionate fervor the other could not understand. 
“Call me anything you will. In spite of myself 
— in spite of everything — J am drawn — I am 
driven toward you!” 

With these incoherent words she rushed from 
the room, almost fearing to trust herself in her 
mother’s presence a moment longer. 

At the stroke of midday Lady Alicia, from her 
window, saw the Marquis and the Lari ride up 
to the Castle. Hastily seizing a light hat, she 
ran down the stairs and met them at the door. 

To the Marquis she said: 

“Roland, there is an interesting article in Les 
Deux Mondes , by your old friend Cavaignac, that 
you will like to read. There is yet an hour before 
luncheon. Then, laughingly addressing Lord 
Kingscourt, she continued : ‘ ‘ And if the Earl will 
grant me his grace, I propose to take a turn 
about the garden in his company.” 

The Marquis jestingly commented upon his 


144 


A life’s labyrinth. 


abrupt consignment to the obscurity of the 
library, but assented very graciously to tbe dis- 
position to be made of himself for the next hour ; 
while Lord Kingscourt acquiesced pleasantly in 
Lady Alicia’s proposal for a walk. When they 
were safely within the shrubberies, she turned to 
him and said: 

“And so, my dear Alfred, our young and beau- 
tiful stranger from Greece is no stranger to you ? ” 

The Earl started, flushed, then grew pale. 

“Do not be alarmed,” said Lady Cliff bourne, 
with a smile. “I shall place you in no embarrass- 
ing position. She told me herself this morning.” 

His face cleared as he answered: 

“What has she told you?” 

“That she enjoined secrecy upon you — ” 

“Which I deprecated,” interrupted the Earl. “I 
could see no grounds for it.” 

“Nor she, doubtless, when she had slept on it,” 
replied his companion. “I will tell you frankly 
that Lady Markham, who is shrewdness itself, 
even though often unjust, detected something in 
the manner of both which aroused her ever- 
active suspicions. She informed me last night 
that she felt convinced you and Miss Strange 
had met before.” 

“I doubt if she put it so charitably as that!” 
growled Lord Kingscourt. “The old cat followed 
us into the garden, I know; although I am 


a life’s labyrinth. 


145 


equally sure she heard nothing, which must ha ye 
disappointed her.” 

“Miss Strange also noticed her attitude, I 
imagine,” said Lady Cliff bourne; “and thought 
it best to tell me you had met before.” 

“She must have done so in any case very soon,” 
said the Earl. “Hers is too upright and trans- 
parent a nature for secrets, especially when there 
is no necessity for their existence.” 

“Nevertheless, the reason of her being in 
England is a secret. She is here for some purpose 
which she can not or will not reveal.” 

“I can not understand it,” said the Earl. 
“When I left them, her father said, in the most 
positive terms, that it was impossible that either 
he or his daughter should leave the secluded 
spot where they have lived since she was a child. 
And now, before three months have elapsed, I 
find her alone in England ; and, what is more, she 
will not tell me why she is here.” 

“Some family reasons, no doubt,” said Lady 
Cliff bourne. “There is a mystery, depend upon 
it; that is why she would not or could not 
discuss it with a comparative stranger.” 

“Do you mean me when you speak of a 
stranger?” inquired the Earl, looking stead- 
fastly into the face of Lady Alicia. 

“Surely,” was the reply. “Even three months 
of enforced habitation in a household does not 


146 


A LIFE’S LABYRINTH. 


entitle one to a siglit of the family skeleton.” 

“Did Alice not tell you, then, that I love her, 
and wait only her father’s consent to our mar- 
riage, — a consent, by the way, that he has 
declared he never will give?” 

“She said nothing of such a state of affairs,” 
said Lady Cliffbourne, surprised, while her pale 
cheek grew red at the remembrance of the impu- 
tation of the morning. But why do you call her 
Alice, Lord Kingscourt? Her name is Constance.” 

“Her name is Alice,” was the reply, — “at least 
it was by that name I knew her. No doubt 
she has several names, and may have chosen to 
be called Constance here. But Mr.. Strange called 
her Alice, and I have heard her called by no other 
name.” 

“Well, that is in itself a trifle,” observed Lady 
Cliffbourne. “But I consider it far more serious 
that you should have fallen in love with her.” 

“You are right! It is such a serious thing for 
me that unless I marry her I shall forever remain 
a bachelor.” 

“Alfred! this from you who could have your 
choice from among the fairest of your country- 
women! I can not believe the testimony of my 
own ears.” 

“She is my countrywoman,” answered the 
Earl; “but even if she were not it would be the 
same. To me she is the fairest, sweetest, loveliest 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


147 


flower the sttn ever shone upon. I meant to tell 
you this episode of my story long since, but I 
have never had the opportunity. No one has 
heard a word from me save yourself. And now 
that you are aware of it, dear Lady Cliffbourne, 
and that Providence seems to have placed us in 
a favorable situation, I hope you will assist me 
to the consummation of my dearest hopes.” 

“I scarcely know what to say,” replied Lady 
Cliffbourne. “I feel wonderfully attracted toward 
this young girl, who in outward appearance is 
much above her present station. But to think 
of her as your wife — you know what mesalliances 
are in the main. Her father — is he a gentleman, 
Alfred?” 

“A gentleman of gentlemen!” cried the Earl, 
with enthusiasm. “I will go so far as to say 
that I have never met his equal, either in manly 
beauty, refinement, talent — all things that con- 
stitute perfection in a man. Never have I lived 
in so ideal a home; and therefore it was with 
surprise and regret unspeakable that I saw her 
whom I love above all else on earth filling the 
position of a paid companion. At the same time, 
my dear Lady Cliffbourne,” he continued, “I could 
not but feel rejoiced that she had found a haven 
with you. Her home was one of ease — nay, I 
might say luxury ; simple, it is true, but with the 
simplicity of perfect taste. The whole thing is 


148 


a life’s labyrinth. 


incredible. I could not sleep last niglit, thinking 
of it.” 

“What you tell me is astounding,” said Lady 
Cliffbourne. “It savors more of romance than 
reality. But, as you say, it is well that she has 
found a refuge with one who will love her, and 
endeavor to make her position as easy as possi- 
ble until such time as she may choose to reveal 
her secret. But, convinced as you may be, and 
as I feel also, that this young girl is all your 
affection has imagined her, may there not be a 
past in the career of her father which would 
prove a bar to her union?” 

“Nothing that her father may have done could 
prove such an obstacle,” rejoined the Earl, with 
emphasis. “I love her for herself alone, and I 
think her an angel. But at the same time it 
would take many and indisputable proofs to 
convince me that Mr. Strange is other than I 
have thought and described him. Sorrow and 
anxiety have left their impress on his countenance; 
but guilt does not dwell, has never dwelt, on that 
noble brow, in those frank, soul-lit if melancholy 
eyes ; nor in the firm lines of a mouth which might 
belong to a saint or a poet, or to both united. 
No, I can never believe it.” 

Deeply impressed by the earnestness of the 
young man, for whose sense and judgment she 
had the greatest respect, Lady Alicia soon felt 


A life’s labyrinth. 


149 


herself almost as thoroughly interested as himself 
in the mysterious situation in which Fate had 
involved them; and before they re-entered the 
house she had learned the entire history of his 
sojourn in the villa near Corinth, where he had 
left his heart and all his hopes of future happiness. 
Now, too, she learned for the first time that it 
was Constance Strange who had saved the 
prisoners from the tortures of Spiridion; and 
the incident, so well related by Kingscourt, served 
still further to increase her admiration for the 
young girl, whom it began to seem to her that 
Providence had directed to the shelter of her roof. 

When at length they entered the dining room, 
they found Miss Strange and Lady Markham 
already waiting ; the Marquis had not yet 
come in. 

The Earl politely saluted both; Constance 
retaining her composure, though closely watched 
by Lady Markham. When the Marquis entered 
Lady Alicia said: 

“I find, Roland, that it was at the residence 
of Miss Strange’s father our friend Alfred was 
domiciled after his adventure with the robbers 
in Greece. So they are already old friends.” • 

“Bless my soul!” cried the Marquis. “You 
are a sly dog, Kingscourt, never to have said 
a word of this. Quite a coincidence — isn’t it? 
— to meet her here.” 


150 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“Miss Strange is modest/’ observed tlie Earl, 
composedly. “Not wishing to bear berself pro- 
claimed a heroine, I yielded to her wishes to say 
nothing. But reflection having sent her wiser 
thoughts, I now feel at liberty to emphasize 
what Lady Cliff bourne has said — that Miss 
Strange and myself are friends. To her kindness 
and that of her father I owe my life.” 

“Thank you, my Lord!” said Constance, with 
a smile and inclination of the head which the 
Earl thought grace personified. 

Lady Markham, quite discomfited that her 
house of cards should have been at least partially 
demolished, looked from one to the other, unable 
to find anything to hazard on a situation to 
which she had anticipated a different termination. 
However, she was unable to repress her natural 
tendency when she at length found tongue to 
remark : 

“Why, how wonderful! how romantic! Next 
—we shall be hearing that — ” 

“Miss Strange is betrothed to a prince of 
Greece,” interposed the Earl, adroitly; thus 
giving the conversation a turn to other topics. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Constance occupied a seat opposite to the Marquis 
at table, and was thus enabled to observe him 
closely. She thought him handsome, but could 
not help contrasting him with her father, whose 
place he had, however unwittingly, usurped. 

While they were still at luncheon a telegram 
was sent from Mountheron to Lord Kingscourt. 
It had arrived from London that morning, and 
requested him to come up to see his solicitors at 
once, on business of importance. He was very 
much discomfited by the news, as he had hoped 
for at least a short interview with Constance 
that day. But it was urgent that he should go 
almost immediately, and he was compelled* to 
take hasty leave of the company. 

“When shall you return?” asked Lady 
Cliffbourne. 

“I do not know,” he answered, somewhat 
ruefully. “I shall be running about the country 
for the next few weeks; probably I shall not 
finish my business before you all go up to 
town. When will that be, do you think, Lady 
Cliffbourne?” 

“Possibly six weeks from now,” was the reply. 

“In that case I may be able to run down 

151 


152 


A life’s labyrinth. 


again,’’ he said, looking wistfully at Constance, 
who preserved her composure perfectly. As a 
matter of fact, the news was something of a 
relief to her; for, deeply as she loved him, the 
thought of her father was uppermost in her 
mind, and must remain so until she had accom- 
plished or failed in the task she had set herself 
to perform. Under existing circumstances she felt 
it impossible that their relations should be other 
than that of friends. Lord Kingscourt, she well 
knew, thought otherwise. His mind and heart 
were unequal to the double strain. 

On his part, the Earl realized as fully as herself 
that, for the present at least, outward appear- 
ances should not be permitted to indicate that 
their position with regard to each other was 
more than that of friendliness; he succumbed, 
therefore, to the situation with as good grace 
as possible. But as they parted, gently returning 
the fervent pressure of his hand, Constance gave 
him such a pretty, shy grace of affection and 
trust that he went away with a heart compar- 
atively light. The Marquis accompanied him; 
Lady Markham repaired to her own room to 
take her customary siesta , and Lady Alicia and 
Constance were left alone. The former led the 
way to the library, asking the girl to follow. 
As the heavy portiere fell behind them Lady 
Cliff bourne said: 


A life’s labyrinth. 


153 


“Dear child, I know all. Lord Kingscourt has 
told me of your heroism, the story of your ideal 
home, as well as of his gratitude toward your 
father and his love for yourself. Whatever I may 
think of the wisdom of this heart entanglement, 
I have no doubt of its earnestness on both sides. 
As long as you choose to keep your own counsel 
with regard to your private affairs, I shall not 
disturb you by a single question concerning them. 
But you are a very young and inexperienced 
girl; and, in spite of the wonderful strength of 
character you have already shown, there may be 
pitfalls ahead of you, and my counsel may at 
some future time be of value to you. Therefore, 
I wish you to bear in mind that if I can ever help 
you either with advice or money, you may count 
on my willing assistance.” 

“ Thank you,— oh, thank you, my Lady!” 
exclaimed Constance, looking up at her with 
grateful eyes. 

A peculiar expression passed across Lady Cliff- 
bourne’s face, and her gaze rested curiously on 
that of the young girl at her side. Presently she 
continued : 

“One word more — nay, two. I beg that you 
will not say 4 My Lady ’ when you address me. 
It savors too much of a menial.” 

Constance blushed. 

“I thought it was usual,” she replied, humbly. 


154 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“It is,” said Lady Cliff bourne; “but, then, our 
relations are somewhat unusual, and we will 
dispense with that form of address in future.” 

Constance sighed as she thought how much 
more of truth than she was aware of dwelt in 
that simple remark. 

Lady Cliff bourne resumed: 

“Lord Kingscourt tells me that your father was 
accustomed to call you Alice. You have two 
names, then; and you prefer that of Constance, 
perhaps ? ” 

“ Lord Kingscourt is right,” was the reply. “ It 
may seem odd that one should change one’s 
name at random, but I have a right to both. 
Call me Alice, Lady Cliffbourne, if you prefer 
it.” 

“I like Constance better,” said Lady Cliff- 
bourne, with a sad smile. “I have already told 
you why.” 

Once more she regarded the girl with the peculiar 
expression that had passed over her features a 
moment before. Holding her at arm’s-length, 
she looked at her intently. 

“My dear child,” she remarked, “you remind 
me of some one, but who it is I am unable to 
determine. It is a resemblance that baffles me. 
Something in the eyes, I fancy, and in the quick 
turn of the head. Was your mother an English- 
woman?” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


155 


“Yes,” replied Constance, in a low voice. She 
dared not trust herself to say more. 

“I may have known her,” said Lady Alicia, 
slowly and wistfully. Then she added, in her 
usual tone : “But I have promised not to question 
you, my dear, and I shall not fail to keep my 
word. Now leave me, — I have an engagement 
with my steward at two, and it is just the hour. 
At half- past three Lady Markham and myself go 
for a drive. I shall expect to see you at dinner 
this evening; we shall be entirely alone. You may 
spend the afternoon as you please.” 

The remainder of the day was spent by Con- 
stance in writing a long letter to her father, in 
which she related every detail of the past twenty- 
four hours. 

Three days passed uneventfully, and Constance 
performed her few light duties so well that she at 
once became indispensable to Lady Cliffbourne. 
A brief note came from Lord Kingscourt to the 
latter, enclosing a letter for Constance, in which 
he begged her to take him into her confidence; 
basing his right to assist her in her self-constituted 
mission on the gratitude he owed her father, if she 
would not allow him what he considered the 
chiefest and most natural privilege. He implored 
her to take his appeal under consideration, 
announcing [his intention to return in a fort- 
night. 


156 


A life’s labyrinth. 


Constance pondered on his words for . a long 
time, unable to come to a conclusion, but feeling 
inclined to pursue the course originally intended. 
While she longed for some one soul in whom she 
could confide her secret, to whom she might turn 
for help, she was unable to satisfy herself that 
the time had yet come for such a step. She was 
anxious to go to Mountheron, feeling that at 
Cliff bourne there was nothing to stimulate her 
search for the real criminal, whom she had 
thought from the first might be discovered, or 
at least that her father’s innocence might be 
established, by evidence to be found only in the 
old castle. During this time she had constant 
recourse to prayer, bidding herself to have 
patience, and reflecting that the secrets of 
eighteen years were not to be revealed all at 
once, and that the hedges which had been so 
skilfully placed around a now almost forgotten 
tragedy, could not be demolished in a day. A 
way was to be opened to her sooner than she 
had expected. 

One morning Lady Alicia said to her: 

“My dear Constance, 1 am in a quandary. By 
this morning’s mail I have received a summons 
to town on a business matter, in which the 
Marquis is also included. I shall be absent a 
fortnight, perhaps a little longer,— lawyers are 
so uncertain: one can never depend on them. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


157 


Felicia accompanies me. But as I shall return 
here, and there will be nothing for you to do in 
town at present, and Lady Markham is about to 
pay a visit to Staffordshire, to leave you alone 
with the servants is out of the question. The 
Marquis has an invalid sister who resides with 
him at Mountheron ; I am sure she would be glad 
to receive you, as she likes company, and is at 
present alone. Would you object to going there 
until my return ? ” 

The heart of Constance fluttered wildly in her 
breast. Here indeed was the realization of her 
hopes. She answered with an enthusiasm that 
surprised Lady Cliff bourne : 

“Oh, I should like it of all things, — that is, if 
you feel assured that I shall be welcome there ! I 
have heard much of Mountheron, and I long to 
see it.” 

Lady Cliffbourne smiled a little sadly. 

“You have all the romantic admiration of a 
young girl for the ancient and picturesque,” she 
said. “Well, you will find it there. But do not 
let Mountheron or its glories win you from an 
older allegiance. I shall grant you but a fortnight 
with Mrs. Ingestre, my dear.” 

“Do not fear,” answered Constance. “You will 
not be as anxious to have me, Lady Cliffbourne, 
as I shall be to return to you.” 

“It is many years since I have been within the 


158 


a life’s labyrinth. 


walls of Mountheron,” said Lady Cliffbourne, — 
“many sad and lonely years.” 

“I liad thought you paid a visit there but a 
short while ago,” replied Constance, in some 
surprise. 

“Ah, yes, I remember!” sighed Lady Cliff bourne. 
“On the day you came here first I told you I 
was to dine and sleep there on the next, I believe. 
But my heart failed me at the last moment; I 
was obliged to send an excuse. There occurred 
the tragedy of my life. You have heard of it, 
of course, — if not before you came to Cornwall, 
since you have been in the neighborhood. The 
Marquis has constantly tried to prevail on me 
to go there at least once; thinking that, as it is 
the first step which counts, I may in time be 
persuaded to make a longer stay. But I am 
afraid I can not.” 

“I have heard the sad story,” said the young 
girl ; “ and I do not wonder at your reluctance to 
go to Mountheron.” 

Her voice trembled, her eyes were filled with 
tears, — tears for the mother for whom but a short 
time before she had felt only sentiments of aver- 
sion and indignation. 

“ My dear child, you have a most tender heart,” 
remarked Lady Cliff bourne, equally moved. “Your 
sympathy touches me beyond measure God grant 
that your young life be spared from even the 


A life’s labyrinth. 


159 


shadow of such a sorrow as I have known!” 

Then, recovering herself, she proceeded to make 
arrangements for the morrow’s flitting. While 
thus engaged Mrs. Ingestre was announced. She 
had driven over from Mountheron to ask Lady 
Markham to spend a few days with her, — not 
that she had any special desire for that lady’s 
company, but because she felt that the courtesy 
was due her by reason of old acquaintance and 
her connection with the family. She was charmed 
with Constance, expressing great surprise that 
Roland — as she always called her brother-in-law 
—had not mentioned her. Much pleased at the 
prospect of having a young and beautiful girl 
for a fortnight’s companion, she proposed that 
Constance return at once with her to Mount- 
tier on. 

Lady Cliffbourne having agreed to the proposi- 
tion, Constance was sent to make her prepara- 
tions. The packing of her box, to be carried to 
the castle later, was relegated to Felicia; and in 
one short hour from the time she had first heard 
of the project the young girl found herself seated 
by the side of Mrs. Ingestre, behind a pair of 
lively bays, bowling along the fine, level stretch 
of road which lay for a couple of miles between 
Cliffbourne and the gradual ascent leading to the 
Castle of Mountheron. She could scarcely believe 
her senses. That for which she had longed and 


160 


a life’s labyrinth. 


prayed, which she had not known how to com- 
pass lay now at her hand. 

Mrs. Ingestre was an ardent admirer of Lady 
Cliff bourne; and Constance soon perceived that, 
while not in any sense a gossip, she had a very 
transparent, albeit a clear, well-balanced mind; 
and that from her she would be likely to learn 
much which she wished to know, and which might 
be of great service to her. And yet she had not 
left Lady Cliffbourne without a keen pang, second 
only to that which pierced her heart when she 
parted from her beloved father. As she strove to 
collect her thoughts, a wild longing seized her to 
see her parents reunited, whatever the result of 
her mission; and her heart grew sick at the 
possibility of failure. But her naturally hopeful 
disposition speedily reasserted itself, and she gave 
her whole attention to the conversation of her 
companion, which soon turned upon the reluctance 
of Lady Cliffbourne to visit Mountheron. Mrs. 
Ingestre fully sympathized with this reluctance. 

“I can the more readily understand her feelings 
on the subject,” she said, “from the fact that, in 
some sense, the sight of the old scenes would 
revive memories that must be insupportable to 
her. If she had believed her husband guilty, and 
had steeled her heart against him, she might the 
more readily have accustomed herself to visit her 
old home with comparative indifference; but 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


161 


having clung to him as she did, never having 
believed him guilty, I doubt if she could be proof 
against the emotions which a sojourn at Mount- 
heron would excite in her heart.” 

“And did she never believe him guilty?” asked 
Constance in surprise. “I had heard a different 
story.” 

“Never!” replied Mrs. Ingestre, emphatically. 
“Those who knew nothing of her circumstances 
may have thought her w r eak, — as she was physi- 
cally, owing to the long illness which ensued upon 
his trial and conviction. Her father was a man of 
iron,— a man of iron, my dear Miss Strange.” (She 
looked at Constance sharply.) “I feel that I may 
trust you ; and, when all is said, there is nothing 
all the world might not hear now in what I am 
about to tell you. I was in a position to know 
— to know. I assure you, Miss Strange, that 
when it took place, it was only on condition that 
she would sign a deed of separation from her 
husband, promising never to see him more, that 
her father, fearing for her reason, and anxious 
to divert as much disgrace as possible from the 
family, already crushed to earth by the blow, 
arranged to have him escape. Iron window bars 
were cut, and a rope found dangling from the 
sill; but Lord Stratford never did that, — never. 
The old Earl connived at it all. It was with her 
a question of death or liberty for her husband, 


162 


a life’s labyrinth. 


and she sacrificed herself for his sake. I fancy 
that not the least of what she has had to suffer 
has been the conviction that, while living, he must 
have thought her what all the rest of the world 
believed her to be — a wife who had deserted her 
husband in the hour of his greatest extremity.” 

“You spoke of a deed of separation,” said 
Constance. “Was there not a divorce granted 
by process of law?” 

“Nothing of the kind,” replied Mrs. Ingestre. 
“That is an error under which the public has 
labored all these years. It was bruited about 
somehow, as such things always are, that a 
separation had been agreed on. That was soon 
magnified into a divorce, and spread abroad, with 
other sensational details. You know there was a 
child — a little girl,— who was stolen, Lady Cliff- 
bourne has always imagined, by her own father. 
But I put little faith in that supposition. The 
child was traced some distance with her captor, 
but they were lost at sea. Poor Alicia! poor 
girl! hers has been a real martyrdom.” 

“Does Lady Cliff bourne ever speak of her 
husband?” inquired Constance. 

“Never,” was the reply. “But there have been 
occasions, particularly before the death of her 
father, when it became necessary that she should 
assert her feelings concerning him. Her love for 
him has remained unchanged ; and she will always 


a life’s labyrinth. 


163 


be faithful to his memory, be he living or dead. 
The world does not know her, nor what she 
suffers; for outwardly she is always calm and 
composed, even cheerful and happy. But it is 
her great unselfishness and regard for others that 
enable her to act as she does. She is an heroic 
woman.” 

It would be impossible to describe the joy that 
filled the heart of Constance at this latest revela- 
tion from Mrs. Ingestre, of whose existence she 
had never heard until that morning, and through 
whom she now hoped she would obtain valuable 
aid and information. She fancied her father’s 
state of mind when he should learn that his 
wife’s efforts in his behalf had been prompted 
not by pity, but the most unfaltering love; that 
she still cherished his memory, and that she had 
never obtained a legal divorce from him. 

“Oh,” she said to herself, “it can not be but 
that all this means a favorable termination to 
what I have undertaken to do! Heaven is pro- 
pitious to my prayers ; the way is being smoothed 
for me; all will yet be well.” 

Soon she found herself approaching the castle, 
up the rugged ascent to the level of the well-kept 
park, and on through the brilliant gardens. A 
few moments more and the carriage stopped 
before the front of the imposing pile; and, like 
one in a dream, Constance passed, a stranger and 


164 


a life’s labyrinth. 


an alien, through the portals of the very house 
where she was born. An old but well-preserved 
woman, attired in the housekeeper’s traditional 
black silk, was descending the stairs as they 
entered. 

“Ah, Mathews!” said Mrs. Ingestre, in a sweet 
voice, “I have not brought Lady Markham, who 
is to visit elsewhere; but here is a young lady, 
Miss Strange, who will abide with us for a 
fortnight, — while Lady Alicia is absent in town. 
You will give her the east room, Mathews; I 
shall want her to be close to me, and I know 
you will make her comfortable.” 

Mathews saluted Constance with an impres- 
sive courtesy, as she said, with the familiarity of 
an old retainer : 

“I beg pardon, ma’am! but the name is 
strange to me. I never heard that Lady Cliff- 
bourne had any relatives of that name, and I’ve 
been in the family, girl and woman, for forty 
years.” 

“Relatives!” exclaimed Mrs. Ingestre, looking 
smilingly at Constance, who also smiled and 
blushed deeply. “Miss Strange is not a relative 
of the familjV’ she continued. “Why did you 
think she was?” 

“Not a relative!” cried Mathews. “I noticed 
the young lady’s resemblance to Lady Cliffbourne 
as a girl the moment I caught sight of her coming 


A life’s labyrinth. 


165 


through the door; and the oddest part of it is 
that her eyes are exactly like — ” 

She ceased abruptly. Mrs. Ingestre looked 
critically at Constance, whose face was suffused 
with blushes. 

“Yes, you are right, Mathews. Miss Strange 
does undoubtedly suggest Lady Cliffbourne, who 
does not suffer by the comparison,” frankly said 
Mrs. Ingestre, as she surveyed Constance intently. 

Mrs. Ingest re’s maid now appeared, and took 
her wraps; while Constance followed the house- 
keeper, who conducted her to the room designated, 
which had already been placed in order for the 
use of Lady Markham. Lady Cliffbourne had 
confided something of the young girl’s story to 
Mrs. Ingestre during the brief visit of the 
morning; and that lady had gathered from her 
remarks that she was more of a guest than a 
paid companion at Cliffbourne, and had promised 
that she should occupy the same position in the 
household over which she herself presided. 

“You have not brought a maid, Miss?” inquired 
the faithful Mathews, as she opened the door. 
“I will send up one of the under housemaids?” 

“There is no need,” said Constance simply; 
“I do not require any assistance. I am Lady 
Cliff bourne’s companion, and accustomed to wait 
upon myself.” 

Mathews gazed at her in astonishment. 


166 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“Lady Cliffbourne’s companion!” she ex- 
claimed. “You might well pass for her daughter, 
Miss, if the Almighty had seen fit to leave her 
that blessing. And not even a relative! Well, 
well! But I am sure you have a kind friend in 
Lady Cliffbourne, God bless her!” 

“You are right,” replied Constance. “She is 
kindness itself. Never did a companion have a 
less onerous position than mine has been since 
I went to her. My lines have been cast in pleasant 
places, I assure you.” 

“How long have you been at Cliffbourne, 
Miss?” asked Mathews. 

“About a week,” was the reply. 

“Well, well! And you’re not a relative!” con- 
tinued the good woman, as she slowly took her 
departure, leaving Constance in a state of con- 
siderable agitation. 

After removing her hat, she went to the glass. 
Yes, there was a resemblance, she thought; even 
Lady Cliffbourne had detected something of it. 
But that must have been a likeness to her father ; 
for she was aware that her eyes were like his. 
Fearful that in some way it might reveal her 
secret prematurely, she now regretted that she 
had not thought of assuming a disguise. 

“But in that case poor Lady Markham would 
assuredly have found me out, with her lynx eyes,” 
she said, turning from the mirror to the open 


a life’s labyrinth. 


lt>7 


window, from which she could view the broad 
and beautiful ocean, and hear the boom of the 
billows as they broke over the rocks a mile dis- 
tant. There she sat in deep thought until 
luncheon was announced. 


CHAPTER XII. 


At one o’clock Mrs. Mathews brought up 
luncheon, saying that Mrs. Ingestre was so 
fatigued from her drive that she would rest 
during the afternoon. 

“She asked me to take you about the castle, 
Miss, and show you the different rooms, old and 
new. Would you like it?” 

“Very much indeed,” said Constance. “I am 
a stranger in England, having lived in Greece all 
my life ; so that everything is new and interesting 
to me.” 

“Your parents must have been English, I 
think?” continued Mathews. “You speak the 
language perfectly.” 

“They were,” replied Constance, briefly. “When 
shall you be at leisure?” 

“In an hour,” said the housekeeper. “Would 
you like to rest first?” 

“No,” answered Constance. “I do not feel 
fatigued.” 

“Very well, Miss. I shall come for you at 
two.” 

Punctual to the hour, she reappeared, carrying 
a large bunch of keys. We shall not weary the 
reader with a description of the lofty rooms, 

163 


A life’s labyrinth. 


169 


faded tapestries, and semi -barbaric splendor of 
the older portion of the castle, now entirely 
abandoned as a dwelling-place; although to 
Constance they possessed an interest second only 
to that which she felt in anticipation of the 
prospect of visiting the apartments once inhabited 
by her father and mother, before the terrible event 
which had separated them ; nor of the long, dimly- 
lighted picture-galleries, where she sought, and 
not vainly, to discover the lineaments of her 
beloved father among the quaint and faded por- 
traits of his ancestors ; nor of the splendid 
drawing-rooms, boudoirs , banqueting halls, etc., 
— more modern, but seldom used by either the 
past or present generation. They came at last 
to a magnificent, wide corridor in one of the 
newer wings of the castle, extending through its 
entire length, the deep - embrasured windows at 
either end facing north and south. On one side 
of this corridor was a blank wall, on the other 
four doorways gave entrance to the apartments 
beyond. 

With a prophetic quickening of her pulses, Con- 
stance felt that these were the rooms formerly 
used by her parents, and she resolved to make 
an effort to inspect them also. 

‘‘This part of the castle is very pleasant,” she 
said, pausing near an immense window, through 
whose emblazoned panes the afternoon sun was 


170 


A life’s labyrinth. 


pouring, making the tiled floor to appear as if 
paved with beautiful, parti -colored jewels. 

“It is, Miss, — or rather it was, I should say,” 
answered Mathews, with a sigh. “These are the 
rooms once occupied by the former Lord Stratford 
and his wife. You have heard the story, Miss?” 

“Yes,” said Constance, “I have heard it. Were 
you here at the time?” 

“Yes, I was housekeeper then as now, Miss,” 
replied Mathews; “and I would not live the 
terror of those days over again for worlds. 
To-day all love, happiness, peace, — two hearts 
united as never were hearts in this world before ; 
to-morrow, murder and desolation, and — I can’t 
speak of it without crying, Miss, even after all 
these years — especially when I stand here.” 

Constance looked at the faithful soul with a 
feeling that almost amounted to affection, as she 
replied, as indifferently as she could : 

“Are you the only one remaining of the old 
servants ? ” 

“No, Miss. There is Orrin the steward, and 
Buffum the butler, true as gold both. There is 
Nadand, the valet of the former Marquis — him 
that was murdered. But I don’t count on him, 
—indeed, I’ve an unspeakable loathing for him.” 

“Is he an unpleasant man?” inquired Con- 
stance, anxious to know the ground of the 
housekeeper’s aversion. 


a life’s labyrinth. 


171 


“No, I can’t say he is, unless being quite 
taciturn and keeping to himself is unpleasant. 
But he always held Lord Stratford guilty, and 
he’s the only one of the servants that did. That’s 
why I can’t abide him.” 

“Strange that he should have been retained 
in the service of the present Marquis. But he 
also may have believed his cousin guilty.” 

But whatever might have been the opinion of 
Mathews on this subject, she was too loyal to 
her employees to air it before an entire stranger, 
no matter how favorable the impression that 
stranger had created in her mind. That she felt 
strongly drawn to the young girl, however, was 
evidenced by what ensued. 

“Are the rooms ever shown to visitors?” asked 
Constance, with a very charming, wistful expres- 
sion, which had an immediate effect on Mathews. 

“ That is as I please,” answered the old woman, 
not without pride. “I have authority to do as 
I like about that. But I never offer to show 
them, — indeed, I am nearly always particular 
not to mention anything about them. Somehow, 
what I said to you slipped before I was aware 
of it. You can understand that a person like me 
would not be anxious to mention the subject to 
curious folks, as most of them are ; for there isn’t 
any more real friendship or sympathy in this 
world than would go on your thumb-nail.” 


172 


a life’s labyrinth. 


The young girl smiled brightly as she answered : 

“You at least are not without a larger share 
than that, Mrs. Mathews. And I hope you will 
believe me also when I tell you that my affection 
and sympathy for Lady Cliffbourne are great, 
considering the short time I have known her, and 
the erroneous impression I had formed of her.” 

“Yes, Miss, I do believe you,” replied the house- 
keeper. “And I don’t have to force myself to 
do it, either; for you have a pair of the most 
truthful eyes in your head I ever saw. There’s a 
look in them, Miss, when you glance up quick, 
as you did then, that reminds me — that reminds 
me— well, I can’t make the comparison to a 
stranger. No offence, Miss, but I can’t.” 

“I shall not ask you what you mean,” said 
Constance, laying her hand upon the arm of the 
faithful woman, “as you do not wish that I 
should know. But, whatever it is, Mrs. Mathews, 
could it serve as a kind of passport for my 
entrance to those rooms which you so justly 
hold sacred? Will you show them to me?” 

“Yes, Miss, I will,” said Mathews. 

She selected a key from the bunch she carried, 
and, unlocking the door nearest the south end of 
the corridor where they were standing, she gently 
pushed the young girl forward, and closed it 
behind them. The shutters were tightly drawn, 
but Mathews went from room to room opening 


A life’s labyrinth. 


173 


them ; and as the light poured in Constance saw 
that they had entered what was probably the 
sitting-room of the suite. A rich Turkey -carpet 
covered the floor; luxurious divans and chairs 
were scattered about the room ; but the uncovered 
tables and mantel were destitute of books or 
ornaments; and there were no pictures on the 
walls, although there were traces of where they 
had formerly hung. 

As she passed into the adjoining room, the old 
housekeeper said: 

“That behind us was Lady Stratford’s boudoir, 
— you know she was called Lady Stratford in 
those days. This was her bedroom; that, Lord 
Stratford’s. Beyond them are the dressing-rooms. 
You wouldn’t care to see them, Miss?” 

Constance followed her silently. The apart- 
ments, in their half-dismantled condition renewing 
her father’s pitiful story, seemed to her like a 
tomb ; and yet, in all their desolation, they spoke 
to her of the occupants who had once lived 
and loved within them. There, upon that silken 
covered couch, her mother had often slept the sleep 
of peace and happiness. In that easy -chair, with 
its reading desk still attached — as it had been, 
no doubt, the day he left it last, — her father had 
spent many a pleasant hour. Beside that window 
they had stood together in the early morning 
to welcome the fresh, bright day. Like a half- 


174 


A life’s labyrinth. 


forgotten dream it seemed to her that upon that 
broad, luxurious sofa she had climbed and nestled 
upon her father’s bosom. 

“This,” said the housekeeper, throwing open 
another door, — “this was Miss Constance’s 
nursery, — the dear baby that they say lies buried 
in the bottom of some foreign sea!” 

The room was entirely empty, — even the carpet 
had been removed. 

“When Lady Cliff bourne came back from 
Italy,” continued the old woman, “she asked 
permission of the Marquis to have the furniture 
removed to her own house. I am told — though 
I’ve never seen it — that she has a locked-up room 
there, where everything is arranged just as it 
used to be here, — toys, little frocks, and every- 
thing. Poor lady, it is but a sad consolation, 
that!” 

Not trusting herself to speak, Constance fur- 
tively wiped her eyes, from which she vainly 
endeavored to keep the tears. Mrs. Mathews, 
observing the action, said : 

“It makes you feel sad, Miss; and no wonder. 
You’re not the same as some that has flitted 
gaily from room to room like pigeons, with, ‘0 
Mathews this and Mathews that ! ’ and not a bit 
of feeling in their hearts. With such as you one 
finds a kind of pleasure, if I might use the word, 
in going through them, if one must at all.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


175 


Thankful for this breathing space in which to 
conquer her emotion, Constance collected her 
thoughts enough to say: 

“It is indeed very sad, Mrs. Mathews. Never 
but once in my life before has anything affected 
me so deeply.” 

Approaching a cabinet with glass doors inserted 
in the thick wall, Mrs. Mathews unlocked one of 
the compartments. The deep shelves were empty, 
save for a tiny shoe, with the little toe upturned 
where it had been too long for the baby foot it 
once had covered. Tenderly, as if it had been a 
living thing, the old woman took it in her hand 
and kissed it. 

“’Twas left behind, Miss, — overlooked when the 
things were sent,” she said; “and when I cleaned 
and dusted the place, as I always do with my 
own hands four times a year, I found it. And 
while I’ve never made so bold as to take it to 
my own part of the house, to put it among my 
own little things — for if I was to die, God knows 
where it would be scattered to,— I took it upon 
myself to keep it here. And I can’t explain, Miss, 
why it should be so, but you’re the first person 
I’ve told it to in all these years.” 

Taking the tiny shoe from the old woman’s 
hand, Constance pressed it to her own lips ; then, 
the climax of her emotion reached, forgetting for 
the moment the part she had to play— forgetting 


176 


a life’s labyrinth. 


everything but that here in this room she had 
been clasped to her mother’s bosom and had clung 
to her father’s lips, she threw her arms around 
the neck of her astonished companion and burst 
into unrestrained weeping. 

“There, now! dear heart, tender heart!” mur- 
mured the kind old creature, patting her on the 
head as though she were a child. “Don’t give 
way so, — don’t give way! Ah, sweet Miss, you 
must either have been a stranger to all sorrow 
until now, or you must have had a deal of it, to 
let such a little thing fret you so.” 

Soon, very soon, Constance lifted her head from 
the clasp of the comforting arms which encircled 
her. 

“Forgive me!” she said. “You must think me 
a very foolish girl, as I am. But if you knew 
what all — what that little shoe recalls, you would 
feel even more kindly toward me than you do.” 

“The heart knoweth its own bitterness,” replied 
Mathews, solemnly; “and, young as you are, I 
see you have already travelled a sorrowful road. 
Come now, and have a cup of tea. I will send it 
up to you in ten minutes. And then if you would 
lie down a bit, I promise you, Miss, that you’ll 
feel all right by dinner-time.” 

She was about to replace the shoe in the cabinet 
when Constance timidly held forth a detaining 
hand. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


177 


“ I know it is asking a great deal, and yon are 
at liberty to refuse me if you must, but could you 
let me keep that little shoe while I am here? It 
reminds me of something — of some one. It would 
be a great comfort to me, Mrs. Mathews.” 

The old woman hesitated, with lips compressed, 
her forehead wrinkled with a frown of perplexity. 

“Yes, it is mine,” she said at last; no one else 
has any claim to it. I could not wound my lady 
after so many years by offering it to her ; ’twould 
only remind her again of long ago. Take it, Miss, 
since it seems to recall some one once dear to you, 
— maybe a little sister. Why should you not have 
it as well as to let it lie mouldering here? Take 
it, my dear, if it will be a comfort to you; and 
maybe you may keep it, if you will.” 

Thanking her with her eyes more than her lips, 
Constance took the precious treasure and placed 
it in her bosom. Retracing their steps through 
the various rooms, they again entered the 
corridor and walked down a narrower passage, 
in order to gain that portion occupied by the 
present inmates. On the way a man came out 
from one of the rooms. Passing them, after 
briefly saluting Mrs. Mathews, he looked 
narrowly at Constance. 

“These are the Marquis’ rooms, Miss,” said 
the housekeeper; “that is Nadand, his valet.” 

Constance said nothing. She had not noticed 


178 


A life’s labyrinth. 


him particularly; but regretted the fact, as she 
was anxious to see the one man among the 
servants who had believed in her father’s guilt. 

Evidently he had observed her more closely; 
for as Mathews, after leaving her, was returning 
to the back part of the castle, he suddenly 
appeared again. Stopping her abruptly, he 
asked : 

“Who was that young lady, Mrs. Mathews?” 

“She is Lady Cliffbourne’s new companion,” 
said the housekeeper. 

“Lady Cliff bourne’s companion!” he repeated. 
“What is she doing here?” 

“I have not inquired, Mr. Nadand,” answered 
Mathews. “You had better ask herself, if you 
are curious to know.” 

“I thought she resembled the family,” said 
Nadand, apparently not noticing the house- 
keeper’s manner. “Yes, she looks like them. 
Strange!” 

“ That is her name,” said the housekeeper, as 
she passed on. So great was her dislike of the 
Frenchman that, though he expressed her own 
thought, and thus strengthened her opinion with 
regard to Constance, she could not have per- 
suaded herself to admit that their views on any 
subject could be identical. 

At dinner the Marquis received Miss Strange 
politely, if not cordially; expressing his gratifi- 


a lire’s labyrinth. 


179 


cation that Mrs. Ingestre would have so pleasant 
a companion during his absence. 

The next day was Saturday. The young girl 
rose early. The servants were not yet up as she 
passed noiselessly down the stairs and into the 
garden, where she wandered about for an hour. 
The grounds were extensive, the paths so many 
that they bewildered her. As she walked slowly 
along, inhaling the fresh, dewy sweetness of the 
morning, she caught sight of a graceful stone 
cross, surmounting a small building barely visible 
through an undergrowth of trees. Turning her 
steps toward it, she soon paused in front of a 
small but beautiful chapel. The door was open. 
At the altar a white-haired priest was saying 
Mass, served by an old man whom she recognized 
as the butler. Mathews and three of the female 
servants knelt in one of the pews. Near the door 
were a few men who looked like laborers. 

Constance entered noiselessly, remaining in the 
back part of the chapel. When Mass was over 
she found Mrs. Mathews in the porch. Said the 
housekeeper : 

“I see you are a Catholic, Miss.” 

‘‘Yes,” replied Constance, smiling, “and also 
an early riser. How pleasant to be able to assist 
at Mass every day ! Does the priest reside here ? ” 

“Oh, yes!” was the reply. “He is a fine old 
man. He was formerly parish priest in the village, 


180 


A life’s labyrinth. 


and had three other parishes to attend besides; 
but he had a bad paralytic stroke and the 
Marquis had him sent here.” 

“How does he spend his time?” asked Con- 
stance. 

“I believe he writes books, Miss,” said the 
housekeeper. “ I know he reads a great deal. 
Would you like to go into the vestry and make 
his acquaintance?” 

Constance having expressed a desire to do so, 
they walked around by the side of the church to 
the vestry. 

“ Good -morning, Father Pittock!” said the 
housekeeper, after she had opened the door to 
his cordial “Come in!” “This is a young lady 
from Cliff bourne — Miss Strange. I am sure you 
will be glad to make each other’s acquaintance.” 

The old priest was very kind and friendly, 
conducting them to his sitting-room, which was 
back of the vestry. Next to it was a small 
bedroom. 

“Here is my domain,” he said as they sat 
down. “Here I read, study, take my meals, and 
receive the few visitors who honor me with a 
call. Just behind, in a little two-roomed cottage, 
lives old Peggy, a pensioner like myself, who 
‘does’ for me and cooks my meals in her tiny 
kitchen. I have few duties and no cares; so 
you see, Miss Strange, I lead an ideal life.” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


181 


“Have you been here long, Father?” she 
faltered, thinking he might have known her 
father. 

“About fifteen years — in Cornwall, here, and 
in the village,” he said. 

Constance sighed. He could hardly have known 
him save by hearsay, she thought. But she liked 
his kind, noble face and clear, penetrating, but 
gentle eyes. Glancing around the walls, she saw 
that they were lined with books. 

“What a fine library!” she said. “You must 
be a great student, Father?” 

“I spend my life with my books,” he answered. 
“They are one’s best friends, after all.” 

Here the old woman came in to lay the cloth 
for breakfast, and Mrs. Mathews rose to go. 
The priest accompanied them to the door. 

“I say Mass every morning at half- past 
six, my child,” he observed, “except Sundays; 
then we have it at eight, to accommodate visitors, 
and also the farm hands, some of whom generally 
go to confession. Occasionally the Marquis goes 
down to the village, but usually he hears Mass 
in the chapel.” 

“Thank you!” replied Constance. “And may 
I come to see you again, Father?” 

“Surely, my child,” he said. “My time, services, 
and library are very much at your disposal. 1 
shall be glad to see you often. Did I understand 


182 


A life’s labyrinth. 


Mrs. Mathews to say you are a friend of Mrs. 
Ingestre? ” 

“I am Lady Cliff bourne’s companion,” said 
Constance. 

“ Oh ! ” he answered ; adding quickly : “ You will 
be doubly welcome on that account. Lady Cliff- 
bourne is a valued friend of my own.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Constance spent part of the morning reading 
to Mrs. Ingestre, whom she found an amiable 
companion. At luncheon the Marquis announced 
that, although Lady Cliff bourne was starting for 
London that morning, he would not be able to 
leave until Monday, owing to some urgent repairs 
that were being made at the castle. 

The day passed very pleasantly. Mrs. Ingestre 
having ordered the carriage in the afternoon, they 
took a drive along the beach. About four o’clock 
Constance betook herself to the chapel, thinking 
that she would like to go to confession. A few 
women were kneeling in the aisles, — tenants they 
seemed to be. Father Pittock was in the con- 
fessional. After she had received that Sacrament, 
she remained kneeling for some time before the 
altar. When at length she went out into the 
porch she found the priest walking up and down, 
reading his Office. She would have passed him 
with a salutation, but he detained her, asking 
her if she would not like a stroll among the ruins 
of the older part of the castle, where the former 
chapel had been situated. Eager to learn all 
particulars, and to become familiar with the 
places — a knowledge of and familiarity with 

183 


184 


A life’s labyrinth. 


which might eventually aid Her in Her search, — 
she at once accepted His proposal. He went for 
His hat and stick, and they set forth. 

Constance was surprised at the extent of the 
ancient dwelling of her forefathers, now fallen 
to decay. 

“Here,” said the priest at last, pausing before 
a large structure, partially unroofed, the greater 
part of which had fallen into an unshapely heap 
of huge stones, — “here are the ruins of the old 
chapel.” 

“It seems only a pile of debris ,” said Constance; 
“but if one could climb over those stones and 
descend to the other side, one might be rewarded 
for the effort. I fancy there must be some sort 
of vault or chamber there.” 

The priest looked about him, measuring with 
his eye the distance between the spot she pointed 
out and the new chapel, some five hundred feet 
distant. 

“I must admit that I have never had the 
curiosity to examine it,” said the priest. 
“Besides, my old limbs are not fit for exploring; 
and I live so much alone that I seldom have 
a visitor who would be likely to feel an interest 
in examining what lies behind that pile of stones. 
You will see by yonder path that in former times, 
at least, curious persons descended thus far ; and, 
perhaps deterred by the crumbled mass of fallen 


A life’s labyrinth. 


185 


masonry, did not seek to explore what lay 
behind.” 

Constance left his side, and walked to the spot 
where the descent seemed easy, and where the 
path indicated by Father Pittock began. Stoop- 
ing, she peered into the depths some twenty feet 
below; then cautiously she descended as far as 
the top of the pile of stones, which seemed to 
have fallen simultaneously into one great heap 
at the bottom. 

The priest watched her from the opposite side 
of the ruin. Presently she returned, saying: 

”1 have had considerable experience exploring 
old ruins in Greece, and have always been inter- 
ested in them. I think, Father, that behind that 
heap of broken wall one might find a large 
chamber. Perhaps the body of the chapel is 
there, and still remains intact. What do you 
think?” 

The priest looked at her curiously. 

“Why, are you a native of Greece? ” he inquired, 
apparently not noticing her question. 

“No, Father,” she replied, with a certain 
reserve. “I am an English girl, but have lived 
in Greece since I was a child.” 

“And I take it you would like to see what lies 
behind that mass of broken stones?” continued 
the priest, with a quizzical smile. 

“Frankly, I should,” said Constance, smiling 


186 


a life’s labyrinth. 


in return. “With infinite labor one might wedge 
one’s self through the narrow opening, which 
gives a glimpse of the black darkness beyond.” 

“It might be dangerous,” said Father Pittock. 
“I do not think those stones have been disturbed 
for many a year, although the people hereabouts 
declare that lights have been seen from time to 
time flashing through the openings of the ruins. 
However, I attach no importance whatever to 
the rumor. Country people are always super- 
stitious; Cornwall folk particularly so, I think.” 

Once more the priest regarded the young girl 
with a peculiar expression; it was as though he 
wished, yet hesitated, to make some further 
remark on the subject which now interested 
them. At length he said: 

“Miss Strange, I believe I could conduct you 
to that chamber which you fancy lies behind the 
debris yonder, — in fact, I know I could. About 
three years ago, while having some repairing done 
in the chapel, I made a discovery, which I mention 
now for the first time. It may seem odd to you 
that I have withheld the information so long, and 
now speak of it to a stranger. But the Marquis 
takes no interest whatever in antiquities or old 
ruins. He is modern to the heart’s core. To 
the dependents of the castle, you will at once 
understand, it would have been neither prudent 
nor in good taste to reveal it.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


187 


“Is it an important discovery, Father ?” 
inquired Constance. “If you should see fit to 
communicate it to me, I shall keep the information 
a profound secret. And I assure you I shall be 
deeply interested. Old ruins have always had 
for me the greatest charm.” 

“I can not see how, in our day, the discovery 
I have made could be of much importance,” 
replied the priest. “Nevertheless, at one time, 
particularly during the Cromwellian persecu- 
tions, I can well imagine that it would have 
been. And I think, Miss Strange, that I know 
of a subterranean communication between the 
present chapel and this ancient ruined pile, which 
was the former one. I also believe that by lifting 
a certain trap -door behind the altar of our little 
chapel over there, and descending some steps, we 
should find ourselves in a corridor leading to the 
old chapel, where in the Ages of Faith the Mount- 
herons worshipped.” 

“You only think so, Father, — you have never 
investigated?” asked Constance, in surprise. 

“I have never investigated,” answered Father 
Pittock, with a smile. “Although often tempted 
to do so, 1 confess I have felt too lazy until to- 
day ; not seeing any benefit to be derived from it, 
even if my conjectures should prove correct. But 
I am willing to make the experiment this moment, 
if you are desirous of testing my impressions.” 


188 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“It can be the work of only a few moments — 
perhaps a quarter of an hour,” said the girl, 
looking at the new chapel,— so called by contra- 
distinction, although it was over two hundred 
years old. 

“Let us try it, then,” answered the priest. 

So saying he began to retrace his steps, Con- 
stance walking beside him. As they went along 
he continued: 

“One day, about three years ago, some men 
were repairing the wainscoting of the vestry, 
which had become worm-eaten and mouldy. Mrs. 
Mathews also took the occasion for a general 
overhauling of cupboards and airing of the heavy 
rug that covers the floor ; and had brought down 
a couple of housemaids for that purpose, as my 
old Peggy is entirely inefficient for such work. 
While taking their luncheon at the noon hour 
the women had gone out to a bench in my little 
garden, where they were seated as I passed into 
the vestry. The broad light of the midday sun 
fell upon the stone floor as I entered, revealing 
very distinctly a square block in the floor much 
larger than the others, which was, as near as I 
could judge, on the line with the altar, on the 
other side of the wall. It looked so much like a 
trap-door, there being no evidence of cement 
between the interstices, that I began to examine 
it. While I was thus engaged the women came 


a life’s labyrinth. 


189 


in with the carpet, which they were about to lay 
once more on the floor. However, I managed 
to prevent them from doing this, saying that I 
thought it would be the better for a night’s 
airing, as it was summer time. 

* ‘After they had finished the rest of their work, 
replacing the various articles in the cupboards, 
and departed, I made a further examination of 
the stone, — finding the impress of an iron ring 
which had at one time been used to lift it. 
Having pried it loose with a long flat wedge 
I happened to have in the house, I swung it back, 
and found apparently nothing but a space under 
the floor, perhaps four feet in depth. Taking a 
plank sufficiently thick to bear my weight, I 
climbed down, lit a match, looked about me as 
best I could in a half- stooping posture; and 
discovered that a few feet away, so as to be 
entirely screened from observation from above, 
a flight of steps led into a long corridor, at the 
end of which I could detect a faint gleam of 
light. I at once conjectured that I had come upon 
a subterranean entrance to the former chapel; 
and, alarmed lest some one coming into the 
vestry might discover the open trap-door, I at 
once went back. After returning to terra £rma , 
and traversing the space between the chapel and 
the ruins, I felt convinced of the correctness of 
my opinion. That is the whole story, — which I 


190 


A life’s LABYRINTH. 


am prepared to verify, if you choose to explore 
the subterranean passage. After all, I can see no 
reason for secrecy in the matter, and the time 
occupied can not be great.” 

He looked at Constance smilingly ; she returned 
his glance with sparkling eyes, eager for the 
adventure. No doubt her beloved father knew 
of this underground corridor, and the purpose for 
which it had been formerly used. 

“0 Father, I shall enjoy it very much!” she 
exclaimed. “And there can not be the slightest 
danger. Let us make the effort, at any 
rate.” 

They were soon in the vestry. Father Pittock 
threw up the end of the carpet, sending a cloud 
of dust into the room. By the dim afternoon 
light Constance could easily see the trap-door 
in the stone floor. Leaving her for a few 
moments, he returned with a small lantern and 
about five feet of plank and a wedge with 
which he lifted the door without difficulty. After 
inserting this into the hole, in the manner of 
an inclined plane, he lit the lantern and descended. 

“I go first,” he said, “in order to test the air 
of the passage; although I have no fear on that 
score, because there is, or was, an opening at the 
farther end through which the light of day is 
plainly discernible. After I have satisfied myself 
that all is safe, I shall return to the foot of the 


a life’s labyrinth. 


191 


plank and report. You are not afraid, my 
child ? ” 

“Not at all, Father!” replied the fearless girl 
who had bearded Spiridion in his cavern. “I 
am only impatient.” 

The head of the priest disappeared, the light 
followed ; while one might have counted twenty 
there was utter silence and complete darkness. 
Then Constance, on her knees before the opening, 
saw the flicker of the lantern once more, and 
heard the voice of the priest saying: 

“All is well. You may descend,” — which she 
did at once. — “It is very dusty here,” said Father 
Pittock, at the top of the steps, swinging the 
lantern above his head; “but for the rest, I fancy 
there will be no trouble, — or at least very little. 
Follow me.” 

Slowly and cautiously he descended the wide 
stone steps, twelve in number; Constance follow- 
ing closely in his wake. Arrived at the bottom, 
they found themselves in a narrow passage, 
scarcely five feet high, but apparently very long. 
Both were obliged to stoop, in order to prevent 
their heads from touching the roof of the tunnel. 
Bats, scattering clouds of dust, flew in front of 
them; rats, disturbed in their burrows for the 
first time in many years, scurried up and down 
the passage, squeaking as they ran. It seemed 
a long time that they walked in darkness, only 


192 


a life’s labyrinth. 


faintly illumined by the lantern which Father 
Pittock carried ; in reality it was but a very few 
moments. 

Gradually their way became clearer. They 
could now distinguish the rocky projections of 
the walls ; the tunnel grew wider, ending suddenly 
in an immense mass of fallen stones, which 
blocked their passage, but through one side of 
which the light penetrated, and it was possible 
to squeeze one’s way. This feat safely accom- 
plished, they found themselves in a large, arched, 
vaulted chamber, whose many massive columns 
must once have upheld the vaulted roof of this 
apartment as well as the stone floor of the dis- 
mantled chapel above. 

They sat down on a marble slab, which looked 
as though it might once have been the cover of 
a tomb. Glancing around them, they saw several 
similar pieces of solid stone scattered here and 
there in confusion. 

4 ‘This must have been either a subterranean 
chapel or a burial place, — perhaps both,” 
remarked the priest. 

Constance shuddered. Her young spirit, though 
acquainted with human sorrow, had had no 
familiarity with death. She looked about her. 
On all sides were those cavernous archways, 
leading, she knew not whither. The spirit of 
curiosity was strong within her. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


193 


“Come, Father!” she said. “Let us see what 
lies beyond those arches.” 

The priest arose at her request, and they went 
forward, finding themselves in another chamber, 
where the remains of an altar were plainly visible. 
It had been formed of numerous small squares of 
parti -colored marbles, and must once have been 
an exquisite work of art. It was surrounded on 
all sides by solid fragments of masonry; behind 
it an almost imperceptible opening admitted a 
bright ray of light. 

“We are now standing underneath the spot 
where the path leads down to the ruins,” said the 
priest. “I feel confident that this is the remnant 
south wall of the chapel, which fell fifteen years 
ago, after a season of very wet weather, carrying 
the altar and floor along with it. I should 
imagine it quite a task to remove those outlying 
stones. Probably that is the reason tourists and 
visitors never try to penetrate the ruins; as for 
the rustics, they are too superstitious.” 

“Yes, I think you are right, Father,” observed 
Constance. “Probably no one is aware of the 
existence of this subterranean chamber. And yet 
it seems strange that it is so. The Marquis at 
least should be aware of it.” 

“The present Lord Stratford was not born here, 
— he never resided at Mountheron until he came 
to the succession, I understand,” replied the 


194 


A life’s labyrinth. 


priest; “though no doubt he visited the castle 
at various times. Young men do not bother 
themselves much nowadays about antiquities, 
unless they have a taste for such things, which 
is rare.” 

Constance approached nearer the altar, making 
her way with difficulty through the ruined pile 
of masonry. 

“Penetrating here from the outside,” she said, 
“one could scarcely know of the existence of 
this room. Father,” she continued, “I think you 
ought to give this discovery to the world. It 
is most interesting; and who knows but, with 
proper appliances and sufficient search, it would 
more than repay exploration? There may be 
treasure hidden away in this vault.” 

“Perhaps I may act on your suggestion,” was 
the reply; “but not with the purpose of finding 
concealed treasure. The old Lords of Mountheron 
were wiser in their generation than to conceal 
their treasure here.” 

The back of the altar faced a cranny between 
the fallen rocks outside, which let in some beams 
of light. As Constance bent to examine the lower 
portion, she saw that one of the stones had 
become dislodged and lay upon the ground. 
Lifting this with the idea of endeavoring to 
insert it once more in its proper place, as it 
was very small, she noticed that a piece of 


a life’s labyrinth. 


195 


paper adhered to its inner side. It was old 
and yellow, with pencilled characters faintly 
inscribed upon it. After replacing the stone, she 
made her way over the broken masonry to the 
side of the priest, holding her trophy in her 
hand. 

“See, Father ! ” she cried. “I found this piece 
of yellow paper sticking to the inner side of one 
of the stones of the altar, which had fallen out, 
and which I have restored to its place. I mean 
to keep it as a souvenir. ” 

“There is writing upon it,” said the priest, 
examining the faint characters. “If you should 
put yourself to the task of deciphering it, who 
knows but you might unearth some wonderful 
secret of the ancient Mountherons ? ” 

He returned it to her, and Constance put it in 
her pocket-book. 

Slowly retracing their steps through the arch- 
ways and the long, narrow passage, they reached 
the foot of the steps; not so much fatigued as 
oppressed by the damp, mouldy atmosphere of 
the underground chamber. Both felt relieved 
when they reached the vestry, the door of which 
Father Pittock had taken the precaution to lock 
before going down, so that no curious interloper 
should discover the secret of the passage and 
vault. 

Constance speedily removed all traces of dust 


196 


A life's labyrinth. 


from Her garments, and eagerly sought the open 
air. 

“Miss Strange,” said the priest as they parted, 
“I can not explain even to myself the readiness 
with which I imparted to you the secret I had 
previously mentioned to no one. Yet I assure 
you it was in no sense a burthen on my con- 
science; for I seldom thought of it.” 

“Have no fears that I will reveal it,” replied 
Constance. “I am but a sojourner here, Father, 
and when I go that little secret shall accompany 
me, — unless circumstances now unforeseen shall, 
with your permission, decree otherwise. And I 
appreciate your great kindness, Father, very 
much indeed.” 

Father Pittock once more betook himself to his 
Breviary, while Constance returned to the castle. 
After she had gone to her room that night she 
bethought her of the faded paper reposing in her 
pocket-book, resolving to try to decipher its 
contents on the morrow, — little thinking that 
H held the key of the mystery, to the solution 
of which she had dedicated her life. And thus? 
with the thought of her absent father in her 
heart and a prayer to Our Lady of Good Counsel 
on her lips, she fell asleep. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The next day being Sunday — a day when it had 
always been the custom at Mountheron to relieve 
the servants of as many duties as possible, — 
an early dinner was served; after which Mrs. 
Ingestre retired to her room, requesting Con- 
stance to be in readiness for a drive at four, 
when the tide would be low and the beach in 
fine condition. 

After early Mass the young girl had spent 
several hours writing notes for Mrs. Ingestre, 
reading a chapter in “The Imitation/’ and a 
couple of chapters from the Life of St. Francis de 
Sales, for whom Mrs. Ingestre had great admira- 
tion. Feeling, therefore, that her religious duties 
had been performed for the day— at least until 
evening, when Benediction would be given, — 
Constance occupied the intervening time in writ- 
ing to her father, the tone of whose letters was 
so full of loneliness, doubts of her ability to carry 
out her intentions, and even fears for her bodily 
safety, that it needed all her store of good spirits 
and youthful confidence to reassure him and her- 
self. She represented to him that so far every- 
thing had been in her favor; that she was now 
on the spot where she could take whatever 

197 


198 


A life’s labyrinth. 


observations were necessary to her purpose; that, 
although as yet she had not found even the 
shadow of a clue to the murderer of her uncle, 
her unbounded faith in God and the assistance 
of His Blessed Mother, joined to the continuance 
of the irresistible impulse which had animated 
her from the first, impelled her to believe that 
the original thought had been inspired through 
that divine care which never proves false to those 
who place themselves under its guidance. 

Everyone she had met was kind to her, she 
wrote ; from Lady Cliff bourne — to whom she felt 
herself drawn by bonds of natural love, which 
her thoughtful consideration and gentle manner 
had so strengthened as almost entirely to have 
dissipated her former prejudice and indignation, 
in which she knew her father had never shared, — 
to the old housekeeper, steward, and butler, who 
had known and loved her exiled father, and who 
still cherished his memory in secret, believing him 
innocent of the crime with which he had been 
charged. 

But she said no word of Pierre Nadand, the 
valet of the late Marquis, as he was of the 
present one, whom she had met several times since 
that first day, in the corridors, on the terrace, or 
in the garden; wdiose sinister face and lowering 
brows, which a long livid scar across the left 
cheek served to make still more saturnine, filled 


a life’s labyrinth. 


199 


her with an involuntary repulsion. With a quick 
bow and a sharp glance of the eye he had passed 
her again and again during the three days 
she had been at Mountheron; and Constance 
wondered whether he, too, saw the resemblance 
which had so impressed the others. She felt him 
to be of a very different order, and augured no 
good from this close, if casual, inspection. Her 
careful Christian education and natural virtue 
debarred her from a premature judgment based 
only on a personal repulsion, without the slightest 
proof, so far, to substantiate it ; yet her woman’s 
intuition, stifled and held at bay with all her 
persistence, would repeatedly assert itself; and 
she felt, in spite of all her endeavors to banish the 
conviction, that if the murderer of the Marquis 
of Mountheron were yet to be discovered, the 
valet was aware of his identity. 

Having finished her letter, she sat deep in 
thought until the clock striking the half-hour after 
four aroused her from her reverie. At that moment 
Mrs. Ingestre’s maid came to the door to say that 
her mistress was suffering from a bad headache, 
but hoped that Miss Strange would not forego 
her drive on that account. Saying that she 
would prefer a walk on the beach, if Mrs. 
Mathews would accompany her, Constance went 
in search of the housekeeper, whom she found 
in her little parlor, taking a cup of tea. Mrs. 


200 


a life’s labyrinth. 


Mathews readily accepted the invitation, stip- 
ulating that Constance should take some tea 
and buttered crumpets, as the hour for supper 
was still far distant, and their walk might be 
prolonged. 

It was nearly six when they set forth, descend- 
ing by the cliff road to the beach, and turning 
their steps eastward, in the direction of the village 
about two miles away. Though discreet, Mrs. 
Mathews was communicative to a certain extent ; 
and Constance learned during the walk that the 
present Marquis, though now entirely reformed 
and an excellent master, had at one time been 
a spendthrift, given to all kinds of irregularities, 
and by no means a favorite with his predecessor, 
— who had several times paid his debts, however, 
owing to his affection for the young man’s 
mother, to whom he had once been attached. 
After the tragedy which had suddenly wrecked 
so many lives, the Marquis had entirely changed 
his manner of life; and it had become a matter 
of wonderment that he had not married. 

Absorbed in these details, the couple had nearly 
reached the outskirts of the village when Con- 
stance suggested that they had better retrace 
their steps, in order to be in time for Benediction. 
There were several pathways leading from the 
castle to the cliffs, and at the foot of one of these 
they met the valet, evidently about to take a 


a life’s labyrinth. 


201 


stroll on the beach. Passing them with a slight 
salutation, he continued in the direction of the 
village. They had not gone far on their home- 
ward way when Constance missed her handker- 
chief, — a pretty trifle, which had been given her 
by old Nestoria on her last birthday. She pro- 
posed that they return in search of it; which they 
did, finding it about half a mile farther back. 

“I do not see Nadand,” said Mathews. “He 
ought to be straight ahead of us, and the beach 
is empty.” 

“Possibly he may have returned by way of the 
cliffs,” said Constance. “He does not look like 
one fond of walking. Is not that the Marquis 
yonder, coming this way?” she asked, pointing 
to the figure of a tall man advancing with rapid 
strides in their direction. 

“I believe it is, although my old eyes are failing 
me fast,” was the reply. “ The Marquis is a great 
walker, — a true born Englishman in that way. 
There is seldom a day he does not cover his twelve 
miles morning and evening. He has been getting 
a little stout lately ; I make no doubt he will do 
all he can to decrease his flesh.” 

Once more retracing their steps, Constance and 
Mrs. Mathews walked briskly toward home. But 
the evening, which had been so fair, began to 
change, and in a few moments a sudden shower 
was upon them. Hastily seeking the shelter of 


202 


A life’s labyrinth. 


the overhanging cliffs, where some of the rocks 
had been so worn by the tide as to form recesses 
wherein several persons could sit with comfort, 
they resigned themselves to the rain; which, in- 
stead of being a shower as they had hoped, now 
began to assume the proportions of a storm. 

“No Benediction for us this evening,” said Mrs. 
Mathews, ruefully. “It may be half an hour or 
more before we get out of this, Miss Strange. I 
believe I’ll say my Rosary; for if I leave it till 
bed -time I’ll be woefully sleepy and distracted.” 

“No better way of spending our time in this 
little cave,” replied Constance. “I will do the 
same.” 

Therefore it was that the twain were sitting 
side by side in profound silence, on a projecting 
shelf of rock -wall within the entrance of the 
miniature cavern, when two shadows fell across 
the sand outside, which they recognized as those 
of the Marquis and his valet. 

Almost involuntarily, Mrs. Mathews put her 
finger to her lips to enforce silence on Constance, 
who nodded quickly in reply. The sole motive 
of both arose from a feeling of embarrassment at 
such close proximity to the two men seeking 
shelter like themselves. 

Instead of entering the adjoining little cave, 
similar in every respect to the one in which 
the two women had taken refuge, the Marquis 


a life’s labyrinth. 


203 


and his valet stood under the roof-like projection 
of the rock overhead. They had evidently been 
engaged in conversation; for the Marquis said, 
as if taking up the thread of a discourse:- 

“That was a bad business, Nadand. I have 
never ceased to regret it. A month longer, and 
all would have been in my hands. But, as we 
were to have had share and share alike, and I 
fulfilled my portion of the contract, I don’t see 
what you have to grumble about.” 

“How many times have I not told you, my 
Lord,” answered the valet, in no very respectful 
tone, “that my share brought me little profit! 
I dared not sell what I had in bulk, lest I should 
be suspected, after the scent was roused about 
the other affair in which your late unfortunate 
cousin was concerned. They would have put two 
and two together, and, voila, where would have 
been Nadand?” 

“As far as that goes, you are right,” assented 
the Marquis. “I had facilities which you had 
not. My share went to America, and flourishes 
there still in the shape of an immense and mag- 
nificent ranch in Colorado, which is becoming 
more profitable every year. I think of going out 
there next autumn.” 

“Oh, that was wise, my Lord!” said Nadand, 
with a sneer. “You had, and still have, the best 
of the bargain.” 


204 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“The fault was not mine,” said the Marquis. 
“I see no reason, as we started equal, why you 
should have a claim upon me after eighteen years. 
As I promised at the time, I retained you in my 
service after the unfortunate — removal of my 
cousin. Your perquisites have been many; you 
should have a goodly penny saved, — and w^ould 
have, were it not for your infernal habit oJ 
gambling.” 

“Which you share, my Lord,” retorted the 
valet, brusquely. 

“I play for somewhat higher stakes, though,” 
answered the Marquis, coolly. “You surely can 
not mean to imply by your conduct and obscure 
reminders during the past few months, that I 
owe you anything?” 

“I am getting old, my Lord,” said the French- 
man. “I am tired of service, and wish to go 
back to my own country. All I ask of you is 
five thousand pounds. That would keep me in 
comfort for the rest of my days.” 

“How would you like it — slap down or in 
quarterly instalments?” replied the Marquis, 
sneering in his turn. “Upon my word, that is 
a cool demand. Nadand,” he continued angrily, 
raising his voice as he spoke, “I should not be 
surprised if the whole story were a lie, and that 
you have had the diamonds hidden away all these 
years; but, with your grasping nature, you wish 


a life’s labyrinth. 


205 


to bleed me as much as you can to the very end.” 

“My Lord,” said the valet, “I have always told 
yon the truth. On one of those gems I realized a 
thousand pounds. My brother disposed of it for 
me in Constantinople. I gave him half the pro- 
ceeds to buy his silence. The rest of the diamonds 
I had in a place I thought safe, but— when I went 
to search for them they were gone.” 

“Perhaps I stole them, Nadand,” said the 
Marquis, with a chuckle. “What if I followed 
you, saw you deposit them in a place of safety, 
and, presto, as soon as you were gone, unearthed 
and put them in my own pocket?” 

“Whatever may be your disposition to-day, my 
Lord,” said the valet, in an insolent tone, “at that 
time you would have been capable of such a pro- 
ceeding. However, I am satisfied you had not the 
opportunity to put them in your pocket, even if 
you had so desired. Long ago I gave up all hope 
of finding them. From the nature of the place 
where they vrere concealed, it would be impossible 
that I should search for them alone; and to 
engage the assistance of others would justly 
excite suspicion. That aroused, my Lord, I doubt 
if you would be much more safe than myself.” 

“You mean that you would reveal my com- 
plicity ?” asked his lordship. 

“That is what I mean,” said the valet. 

“Nadand, you are a most contemptible fellow,” 


206 


a life’s labyrinth. 


said the Marquis. “ For eighteen years you have 
made my life a torture. You are a pastmaster 
in the art of blackmailing. There are times when 
I could strangle you. I have never believed your 
story about the loss of those diamonds. If what 
you say is true, why have you never given me a 
clue to the place where you deposited them? 
Can you, mean as you are, think me so con- 
temptible a cad as to fancy I would steal them 
or betray you? ” 

“No,” said the valet, sullenly. “ I believe you 
would recognize my right to them as per agree- 
ment; and betray me you dare not. But neither 
you nor I, my Lord, as I see it, could recover 
them without the aid of others, as I said before ; 
and the fact of their being in that particular 
place would excite suspicion against me.” He 
stopped suddenly, then blurted forth abruptly: 
“To tell the truth, my Lord, I was drunk when 
I hid them; and there was a combination which 
I lost.” 

“Ah!” said the Marquis. “Well, that compli- 
cates matters. But I have an idea. Have you 
been drunk since?” 

“Occasionally,” answered the valet. 

“And have you ever, while in that condition, 
had an inkling in your mind of the transaction, — 
a conviction that if you went in search of them 
you might be able to find them?” 


A life’s labyrinth. 


207 


“I have, my Lord,” said the valet; “and it 
has been with difficulty that I have prevented 
myself from doing so, although in my sober 
moments I have often made the effort.” 

“I have heard of similar experiences,” said 
the Marquis, earnestly. “What if we try the 
experiment? ” 

“Thank you, my Lord!” replied the valet. “I 
do not care to make the trial.” 

“Would be afraid to trust yourself with me, 
perhaps?” said his master. 

The valet remained silent. 

“You are a coward, Nadand,” said the Mar- 
quis. “I should feel free of an incubus if I were 
well rid of you. Besides, you are a constant 
reminder to me of something I would rather 
forget. The Marquis of Mountheron — since a 
certain lamentable occurrence— has endeavored 
to do his duty in a manner unknown in the 
time of Roland Ingestre. I will draw up a con- 
tract which you shall sign, and in which I shall 
specify a certain sum to be paid to you — under 
certain conditions — during the term of your 
natural life, as an acknowledgment of faithful 
service. Will that be satisfactory?” 

“It depends upon the sum specified, my Lord,” 
answered the valet. 

“You assume too high a hand,” said the Mar- 
quis. “Remember, this is not a one-sided affair.” 


208 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“I think that honors are even,” observed the 
valet; “though at present the situation is in 
your favor, my Lord. You have health, wealth, 
position, and you are comparatively young. 1 
am old — or getting old, — my health is failing. 1 
long for a period of repose before I die. If you 
come down with something handsome, it will 
be no more than my due. And I will say to you 
frankly that it will be better for both that the 
lost diamonds should not be discovered in our 
lifetime. It might make things unpleasant, even 
so far as to excite suspicion that the guilty man 
had not—” 

“Villain! what do you mean?” shouted the 
Marquis. “You are even a greater knave than I 
thought you.” 

“Sh!” said the valet, quietly. “Some one may 
hear.” 

“Be wary of your tongue,” continued the Mar- 
quis, “or it shall go ill with you. I could wring 
your cowardly neck in a moment — ” 

“Sh, my Lord!” interrupted Nadand, in the 
same composed tone. “You are speaking above 
a whisper, and I think I hear a sound outside.” 

“It was only a gull,” said the Marquis, 
advancing a step, and speaking in a lower tone. 
“A gull — see where he flies! But you can not 
make a gull of me, my friend. Come! the rain 
is over.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 209 

With a long, quick stride, the Marquis emerged 
from the shelter of the rock, closely followed by 
the valet, whose noiseless footsteps and catlike 
tread seemed like that of a treacherous beast 
of prey. 

During the foregoing conversation not a sound 
had passed the lips of the two women seated far 
back against the wall of the little cave. Scarcely 
had they dared to breathe, lest their proximity 
should be revealed; while with loudly beating 
hearts they peered with strained eyes into the 
fast gathering darkness. Closer and closer they 
had clung to each other as the ignominy and 
horror of the revelation betrayed themselves, till 
at last the arms of the woman clasped the form 
of the girl in a rigid embrace, of which neither, 
in her terror and emotion, was conscious. 

Fully five minutes elapsed before either spoke. 
Mathews was the first to break the silence. 
Loosening her clasp about the waist of Con- 
stance, she endeavored to sit erect, but her 
strength failed her. 

“O my God!” she exclaimed, “to think what 
we have heard this day, — to think of the mystery 
and shame and sin that have been revealed to us 
this terrible day! 0 Miss, you can understand 
some of what we have heard, but not all! But 
I can — I can! And, O my gracious Lord, what 
am I to do, what shall I do?” 


210 


A LIFE’S labyrinth. 


Noticing that Constance did not reply, she 
became aware that the head of the young girl 
still rested in a limp fashion against her shoulder. 
It took but a glance to convince her that she had 
fainted. Mrs. Mathews at once placed her in a 
recumbent posture, removed her hat, and blew 
into her face, as the air in the cave was somewhat 
close. This proving ineffectual, she ran out to 
the beach, where she had only a few feet to go 
until she reached the swell of the waves which 
were fast rising. Dipping her handkerchief in the 
breaking wave, she ran back to the recess and 
bathed Constance’s face and hands with the cool 
water. This revived her at once ; she opened her 
eyes, looked about her, and presently, with the 
aid of Mathews, stood on her feet. 

“Come,” she said, in a sepulchral voice, gazing 
about her as one dazed, — “come, let us hurry 
away from this place: they may return.” 

“Do not fear, my child,” said the kind woman, 
concerned for the moment only with the strange 
weakness of her companion. “They will not 
come back; but even if they should, we need not 
be alarmed. Your mind is distracted by what 
you have heard.” 

But Constance, catching Mrs. Mathews’ arm, 
drew her forward as fast as her own lagging 
steps would permit, saying as they went: 

“Let us walk in close to the cliffs, where they 


a life’s labyrinth. 


211 


can not by any chance see us, Mrs. Mathews,— 
not by any chance.” 

“We shall need to do that now, dear child,” 
answered the housekeeper; “for the tide is rising 
fast. But there is no danger that we shall be 
seen : they have gone up to the castle by the cliff 
road. See, as far as the eye can reach there is 
no one ahead of us.” 

Constance walked on silently fo;r a few 
moments, clinging like a feeble child to the 
housekeeper’s arm. After they had passed the 
rocks, and were well in shore upon the broad 
beach which was the shortest and easiest walk 
homeward, she paused abruptly, and, placing 
herself directly in front of the housekeeper, her 
sweet face pale as marble, her beautiful eyes 
distended, she asked: 

“What did they mean? What had they done, 
Mrs. Mathews? Oh, tell me truly, as you value 
your soul’s salvation, what do you think they 
had done?” 

Unnerved by the experience of the last half hour, 
horror-stricken by its revelation, and compelled 
by the intense earnestness of her companion, the 
old woman replied, clasping her hands together, 
and looking heavenward as she spoke: 

“Stolen the diamonds — the Marquis’ diamonds, 
missed after his murder; and, more than that — 
worse than that — far more terrible. Lord forgive 


212 


A life’s labyrinth. 


me, if I think what I should not ! I can not say 
it! 0 Miss, you do not understand!” 

11 1 not understand!” cried the young girl, 
seizing the housekeeper’s hands in her own, — 
“ I not understand! Who can, then, if I can not? 
For I am Constance Stratford, and these men 
are the thieves and assassins that have ruined 
my father’s life, and made him a heart-broken 
exile for nearly twenty years ! ” 

“Nursling of my heart, sweetest bird that ever 
nestled in Mountheron! my old eyes did not 
deceive me!” exclaimed the old woman, flinging 
her motherly arms about the trembling girl, and 
clasping her to her faithful bosom. 

Her secret once revealed, Constance suffered 
her agitated heart to lean with entire confidence 
on the sympathy and unswerving fealty of the 
old woman, by whose side she slowly walked in 
the direction of the castle. 

The flood of their mutual emotion once spent, 
sober thoughts began to reassert themselves. 
When they reached the castle, Mathews conducted 
Constance at once to her room, undressed her as 
though she were a baby, and put her to bed. 
Oh, how sweet were these tender ministrations to 
the forlorn heart of the lonely girl! As soon as 
her head touched the pillow, the good old woman 
went downstairs for a delicious egg-posset, which 
she made Constance swallow ; although the latter 


A life’s labyrinth. 


213 


had assured her she did not feel in need of 
refreshment. 

“It will make you sleep soundly, my dove,” 
said Mathews; “and I shall not stir from your 
side till I know you are fast asleep. To-night 
I shall make up a bed for myself in the little 
dressing-room. After all that passed to-day I 
wouldn’t like to leave you alone; you might have 
a nightmare. Sleep to-night, Miss Constance,— 
only sleep. To-morrow we’ll think what is best 
to be done.” 

Soothed by the motherly voice and cheered by 
her kind companionship, Constance soon found 
the repose which her sorrowing heart and over- 
wrought nerves demanded; but many were the 
tears that fell upon the white coverlet and many 
the prayers that ascended to Heaven before 
Mathews left the bedside of her newly -found 
young mistress, and sought the rest she, too, 
so much needed after the experience through 
which they had passed. 


CHAPTER XV. 


When Constance awoke the next morning, almost 
her first feeling was one of disappointment with 
herself at the weakness which had overcome her 
the day before, as well as on the previous 
Saturday. She had overestimated her own 
strength, but her resolution remained unchanged. 
In the fresh early morning light she renewed her 
purpose; and while still laboring, to a certain 
extent, under the emotions of the preceding 
evening, and unable as yet to formulate to her- 
self what course she should pursue, she felt that 
success and victory lay within her grasp, unless 
some unkind Fate should snatch them from her. 
She felt that Mrs. Mathews was not only to be 
thoroughly relied upon, but that her discretion 
was beyond question; and, now that the deed 
was done, she could not deny that it was com- 
forting to feel that she might confide in at least 
one faithful soul, — that she was not utterly alone. 
She felt also, knowing what she now did, that 
every moment was precious, and delay dangerous; 
some unforeseen accidents might change the 
aspect of affairs altogether; that one day might 
hold in its grasp untold possibilities for herself 
and her father. 


214 


A life's labyrinth. 


215 


As her thoughts shaped themselves into first 
one plan and then another, she became convinced 
that further action would be impossible without 
the aid of older and wiser counsel. And as she lay 
there in the bright dawn of the summer morning, 
between thinking and praying, she resolved to 
send for Lord Kingscourt, confide all to him, and 
rely upon his advice for future action. At the 
same time she resolved to communicate nothing 
of the new and important discovery to her 
beloved father, who at such a distance, in his 
weak and delicate state of health, would ex- 
perience from it nothing but anxiety and alarm, 
and perhaps even a false hope which time and 
subsequent events might dispel. 

As the young girl calmly reviewed the events 
of the previous evening, endeavoring to recollect, 
as nearly as she could, the conversation of the 
Marquis and his valet, she could not remember 
that anything was said which would directly 
fasten on either of them the murder for which 
her father had been arrested and sentenced to 
imprisonment for life. But their talk had been 
susceptible of no other interpretation. Mathews 
and herself had the same understanding of it, — 
viz.: that Sir Roland Ingestre, instigated by what 
motive she knew not, but probably that of 
impecuniosity, had hired the valet to steal the 
diamonds and commit the murder; that the 


216 


a life’s labyrinth. 


dispute between her father and uncle had opened 
the way to a favorable opportunity, which led 
to the terrible events that followed. But Con- 
stance was the soul of honor; and, while 
recognizing the necessity of admitting Lord 
Kingscourt to her confidence, she shrank from 
summoning him for that purpose to the house 
of his friend, in order to subserve an end which 
must eventually be the cause of Sir Roland 
Ingestre’s ruin. Still she saw no other way open 
to her; and reason told her that the roof that 
sheltered her was in reality that of her exiled 
father and lonely mother, and bade her not strain 
a point at trifles where so much was at stake. 

Pressing her Rosary ring to her lips, she arose, 
dressed, and was about to descend to the 
breakfast room, when she suddenly remembered 
that there she might possibly meet the Marquis, 
—something to which she was unequal at present. 
The entrance of Mathews reassured her on that 
point, at least. The Marquis had already left 
for London; expecting, she had heard, to be 
absent a fortnight, as previously announced. At 
the same time the housekeeper informed Con- 
stance that the Marquis had been unaccompanied 
by his valet, who had suddenly been taken ill, 
but expected to join his master in a day or two. 

“He is no more ill than you or I,” she added, 
with vehemence; “for I saw him peeping through 


a life’s labyrinth. 


217 


the door of his room as I passed; and when I 
asked him what he wanted, he said: ‘A good 
breakfast, Mathews, if you please. Send it by 
Jim.’ He is up to some deviltry, Miss Constance, 
believe me; and I can’t help thinking that maybe 
he’s going to take the advice that was given him 
last night, and — ” 

“I do not understand you, Mathews,” inter- 
rupted Constance, anxiously. “You can not mean 
that he is about to leave Mountheron?” 

“No, Miss Constance, not just yet,” was the 
reply. “But, if I am not mistaken, he does mean 
to make another hunt for the diamonds; and, if 
he finds them, take French leave. And I think 
he may have it in his mind to get drunk, as the 
Marquis hinted, and perhaps find them that way. 
I didn’t sleep a wink last night, Miss Constance,” 
continued the old woman. “To think of the 
terrible things that have been done! Your poor 
father away there in foreign parts so long; your 
growing up in a strange place like Greece, that I’ve 
always fancied was half savage, though you’re 
as lovely as if you’d been in England all your 
life ; to think of your mother away in Italy, and 
then home here at Cliffbourne all alone, the 
loveliest woman in the British Isles! Oh, it is 
terrible — terrible! ” 

“It is the future, and what is best to do, 
that I am considering — that we must both 


218 


A life's labyrinth. 


consider now,” said Constance; “for I sliall 
want your assistance as well as your sympathy. 
All that I ask at present, however, is perfect 
secrecy.” 

“Do you see that wall yonder, my darling?” 
said the housekeeper, pointing grimly in front 
of her. “I shall be as dumb as that. Send me 
where you will, ask me to do anything; I am 
at your command. And, what is more, I sha’n’t 
betray, either by look or word, that I ever saw 
you before you stepped across the threshold 
Friday morning last. But I’ll run now to pre- 
pare your breakfast.” 

While Mathews was away Constance deter- 
mined to inform her of the circumstances under 
which she had become acquainted with Lord 
Kingscourt, whom she concluded to summon at 
once; as it might reasonably be supposed by 
the inmates of the household, principally Mrs. 
Ingestre, that, ignorant of the movements of the 
Marquis, he had returned to Mountlieron for 
a visit. 

When the housekeeper learned of the relations 
existing between the Earl and her newly -found 
young mistress her joy was great. He had 
always been a favorite with her; she had heard 
some account of his adventure in Greece, in 
which a young peasant girl had figured as the 
rescuing heroine. But as Constance modestly 


a life’s labyrinth. 


219 


related her share in the episode, speaking of the 
robber Spiridion as of one for whom she felt not 
the slightest fear, the old woman clasped her 
hands together and cried out: 

“Why, my dear Miss Constance, you are a 
second Joan of Arc! I can compare you to none 
other. That’s a book I’ve read over and over; 
though, indeed, I must say I don’t hold much with 
anything French. I’ll easily prove to you that 
my words are true. Joan was a deliverer, and 
was there ever a braver young woman? Didn’t 
you deliver your poor persecuted father from 
despair when he found you and took you along 
with him to Greece ? And is there any who could 
blame him for it, feeling as he felt— thinking 
himself to be abandoned by all the world? And 
didn’t you deliver him from desolation in that 
strange place, — you his comfort and consolation, 
his prop and his pride? And didn’t you deliver 
the Earl from the bloody brigands that would 
have taken his life? And wasn’t it what happened 
then and after that made Lord Stratford tell you 
the secret he meant to have kept till the end of 
his life? To have told it to you, nursling of 
my heart, was in itself a deliverance from the 
torture and weight of it. And aren’t you here 
to deliver the house of your forefathers from the 
villains and murderers that have robbed you of 
your own; from the darkness and disgrace that 


220 


A life’s labyrinth. 


have overshadowed it, — here to restore the glory 
and happiness of Mountheron? ” 

Constance smiled at the fervor of the old 
woman, through the tears that filled her eyes. 

“God grant that your last words may prove 
true!” she replied. “And, though my mind is 
perplexed and I am uncertain what is best to 
do, I hope that all will yet be well. One thing 
I am resolved upon, and that is to summon 
Lord Kingscourt at once. I must go to Mrs. 
Ingestre now; but before doing so I will ask 
you to send a telegram to the Earl, by your own 
hand. He is now in Cumberland shire — or was 
to be there this week. I will write the message 
at once.” 

“I can get the light cart immediately,” replied 
Mrs. Mathews. “There are always errands to be 
done in town, and I can have that as an excuse.” 

Turning to the writing-desk, Constance wrote 
the following message: “Come! You are needed. 
C. S.” She addressed it to the Earl, and then 
placed it in the old woman’s hand. 

“Nothing for dear Lady Cliff bourne ? ” inquired 
Mrs. Mathews. 

“No,” answered Constance. “From her more 
than all others would I wish my purpose and 
identity to be kept a secret until I have accom- 
plished the one and established the other.” 

Mrs. Mathews hurried away to deliver her 


a life’s labyrinth. 


221 


message at the station; and after her departure 
Constance prepared to go to Mrs. Ingestre, whom 
she had not seen since the evening before. She 
found that lady reclining on a couch in her 
sitting-room, in unusually good spirits, and ready 
for an hour’s reading from a new novel just 
arrived from Mudie’s. But after the young girl 
had read for about twenty minutes, Mrs. Ingestre 
declared the morning so bright and tempting that 
she felt inclined for a drive, inviting Constance to 
accompany her. They drove, as usual, along the 
beach, through the little fishing village, and up 
through the town, and by the high-road home. 
Mrs. Ingestre informed Constance that the Mar- 
quis had gone up to London only for a day, that 
he was expected back on the morrow; but must 
finally return to London again on business in 
which he and Lady Cliff bourne were interested, 
and which might occupy them much longer than 
they had anticipated. 

The news filled Constance with dismay. If the 
Marquis and the Earl should meet at the Castle, 
as was natural in the event of the former’s speedy 
return, it would seem strange to the Marquis if 
Lord Kingscourt should remain there during his 
absence, particularly as the time of his return 
seemed indefinite. Weary and perplexed, she 
sought the chapel; and, after an hour spent in 
fervent prayer, she knocked at the door of the 


222 


A life's labyrinth. 


priest’s residence. She found Father Pittock in 
the midst of travelling preparations. 

“My dear child,” he said, “I am on the point 
of departure for London, where I have not been 
for ten years, and where I had hoped never to 
go again. But I am summoned as a witness in 
a case of wards in chancery as interminable as 
that of ‘Jarndyce versus Jarndyce.’ I shall be 
gone about a week, perhaps longer.” 

The young girl sighed. She had not intended 
making a confidant of him — as yet at least; but 
she had felt that his pleasant conversation and 
kindly interest would have been welcome. 

“You do not look well,” he remarked eyeing 
Constance sharply. “This bracing air of ours 
may be too strong for you.” 

“No, Father,” she rejoined; “I like it very 
much. But I am concerned about some private 
troubles which annoy me not a little.” 

“Take them to Almighty God, my child,” said 
the kind priest. “ He will not fail to console and 
comfort you ; and, if He thinks best, remove the 
cause of your concern.” 

“I have just come from the chapel, Father,” 
she answered. “I presume it will be locked while 
you are away.” 

“I leave the key with my housekeeper,” said 
the priest; “but she is about to take advantage 
of my absence to visit some of her old cronies 


A life’s labyrinth. 


22 b 


in the town. If you will kindly deliver it to 
Mrs. Mathews, I shall be much obliged. She will 
let you have it whenever you wish to pay a 
visit. Only be sure to lock the door ; for, though 
the people hereabout are honest, marauders might 
be in the neighborhood, and the sacred vessels 
are valuable. The door of the vestry is already 
locked, with the key on the inside. The windows 
are strong and fast.” 

Having received the priest’s blessing and 
promised to be careful, Constance took her leave. 
She wore the same gown she had been wearing 
on Saturday when she explored the underground 
passage and chamber; and, feeling her pocket- 
book as she disposed of the* key, her thoughts 
reverted to the paper she had found in the ruins. 
She opened the pocket-book, took the slip from 
one of the compartments, and began to decipher 
it slowly as she walked in the direction of the 
castle. Smeared as it was with the red clay, 
under which it had no doubt been lying for years, 
partly torn, the characters faded, she succeeded 
in making out these mysterious words: “Twenty- 
sixth from east, — seventh from bottom, — fifth 
from back.” The handwriting was unmistakably 
that of one educated in France, the characters 
fine and delicate. Without a moment’s hesitation, 
she divined that the writing was that of Nadand, 
and that the words represented the combination, 


224 


A life’s labyrinth. 


or key, that she had heard him declare to the 
Marquis he had lost or mislaid, — the secret of the 
treasure-house where he had hidden his share 
of the diamonds, to secure the possession of which 
her uncle had been murdered. 

Carefully replacing the paper in her pocket- 
book, she pursued her way through the garden 
to the castle, anxious to see whether Mrs. 
Mathews had returned. She met her at the 
servant’s entrance, and learned that the message 
had been delivered. All the fearlessness and 
courage which were such remarkable character- 
istics of Constance had returned to her after 
that long prayer in the chapel. She felt the most 
unbounded confidence in God; her spirits were 
almost buoyant. Not so the housekeeper. The 
events of the past twenty -four hours, joined to 
a sleepless night, had so upset her that she felt 
obliged to seek her bed at once. Constance 
accompanied her to her room, made her sit 
down in a large, comfortable chair, and rang 
the bell for a cup of tea. 

“Miss Constance,” said the old woman, as she 
sipped the refreshing beverage, “I suddenly went 
into a collapse on the road coming back. Once 
I had the heart of a lion, like your own; but, 
what with the memory of the past and the dread 
of the future, and the terrible secret we have 
between us, my mind is nearly gone. 0 my child ! 


A life’s labyrinth. 


225 


it would have been better to Have telegraphed 
to Scotland Yard at once, and have them send 
down a dozen policemen to arrest the villains 
or at least a couple of detectives to shadow 
them.” 

“No, Mathews/’ answered Constance, calmly, 
her fortitude increasing as that of the old woman 
declined. “It is a little too soon for that, and 
there is no danger to be feared by delay. I am 
not afraid of the outcome, but my mind is all 
at sea. When Lord Kingscourt arrives he will 
know what to do. I will leave you now; and 
after you have had a good long sleep you will 
feel much better. Who knows when I may need 
you, Mathews? Remember this, and do not 
break down.” 

The day wore on; it seemed almost inter- 
minable. Constance spent a couple of hours 
with Mrs. Ingestre in the afternoon. Although 
she had neither requested nor expected a reply 
from Lord Kingscourt, every unwonted move- 
ment in the corridor made her think that a 
message had come, perhaps to announce his 
inability to respond to her summons. 

After leaving Mrs. Ingestre, she sought 
Mathews’ room, finding the old woman greatly 
refreshed by her nap, and busily engaged in the 
weekly mending, — a task Constance insisted on 
sharing. Many confidences were exchanged 


226 


A life’s labyrinth. 


during that quiet hour in the housekeeper’s 
room ; and Constance learned much of the 
early happy life of her parents. When she rose 
to leave, in order to make some slight prepara- 
tion for dinner, of which Mrs. Ingestre wished 
her to partake with her in the dining-room, and 
after having told of the key of the chapel, which 
she had forgotten to bring from her own room, 
she glanced through the window near which Mrs. 
Mathews was sitting. 

“How well one can see the ruins of the old 
chapel from here!” she remarked advancing, 
nearer. 

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Mathews. “It was not so 
bad until about fifteen years ago, Miss Constance. 
But the walls fell suddenly one night, after a long 
time of rain, carrying the altar along with them ; 
and not a soul has turned a hand to lift it since. 
There are stories of lights having been seen in 
the ruins now and again, but I have never 
believed them to be anything but servants’ 
gossip. I have a fashion of taking a look out 
of the window every night before I go to bed, 
and I’ve never seen anything. As in all old- 
time castles, there’s a kind of legend that there 
were secret places in the old chapel where they 
used to hide the holy vessels.” 

“In the altar, perhaps?” asked Constance, 
thinking of the smooth stone she had found on 


a life’s labyrinth. 


227 


the ground, and had replaced during her visit 
with Father Pittock. 

“I think not, — some place in the walls round 
about the altar. But they’ve all fallen in, of 
course; and there’s nothing there now.” 

The mind of Constance at once reverted to the 
slip of paper in her pocket-book. Might it not 
be possible that Nadand had hidden the diamonds 
in the walls; and after they had fallen dared 
not seek to recover them, knowing it to be 
almost an impossibility ? She leaned over the sill. 
The head of a man could be seen moving among 
the heap of stones. She beckoned to the house- 
keeper. 

“Who is that?” she inquired, in a whisper, 
awed by the conviction that forced itself upon 
her. 

“It is Nadand,” said Mathews, with decision, 
after a moment. “It is Nadand, Miss Constance, 
— I am sure of it.” 

Drawing the heavy damask curtain a little 
forward, that they might see without being 
seen, the two women watched in silence. Now 
the head would entirely disappear, then come 
plainly into view. After a while the figure 
emerged from the ruins and took the pathway. 
It was plainly the valet, walking a little un- 
steadily, with his head bent downward as if in 
deep thought. 


228 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“Oh, he has been drinking!” said the house- 
keeper. 

“And following the advice of his master, no 
doubt,” replied Constance. 

“I think you are right, my dear,” said 
Mathews. “What if he had hidden — ” 

“I believe we both have the same thought,” 
interposed Constance. “And I believe also that 
when night comes he will seek further.” 

Dropping into the arm-chair, Constance clasped 
her hands together, exclaiming: 

“Oh, if I dared but do it! — if I only dared, 
Mathews ! ” 

“What is it, my blossom?” inquired the 
servant, solicitously. 

“Mathews,” cried the girl, seizing her hands, 
“will you come with me?” 

“To watch that drunken villain? He might 
murder us, darling!” 

“I know a way by which, if we are careful, we 
can see without being seen,” continued Constance. 

“ You know a way, precious lamb, and you 
have been here but three days!” 

“Trust me, I do,” answered Constance. “Alone 
I could not face it; but with you, Mathews, I 
shall not be afraid. Believe me, there will be no 
danger whatever, if we are but careful.” 

Mrs. Mathews looked at the young girl with 
adoring eyes. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


229 


“It is of you, Miss Constance dear, I think, ” 
she said, — “only of you. What matter about 
these poor old bones of mine? But will it do 
any good?” 

“It can do no harm,” was the reply. “And 
we may learn something more, — something that 
may help us very much. Ah, I have an idea!” 
she went on. “I know a way by which danger 
can be averted should it threaten us. I am not 
afraid, Mathews.” 

Her tones were full of hope and confidence, 
which communicated themselves to the mind of 
the old woman. 

“I’ll go wherever you lead me, my sweet 
blossom,” she said, reverently, “in the holy name 
of God!” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


The lingering English twilight was fading when 
Constance, wrapped in a long dark cloak, tapped 
at the door of the housekeeper’s room. In silence 
they stole along the corridor, past the apart- 
ments of the Marquis, from whence came a 
shuffling sound which indicated that the valet 
was within ; down the servants’ stairs, and along 
the gravelled walk, which led through the back 
garden, and thence to the chapel. 

“ Where are you taking me, dearie?” asked the 
housekeeper. “We are walking away from the 
ruins now.” 

“First to the chapel,” said Constance; “and 
afterward — I will show you.” 

“’Tis a good beginning,” said the old woman; 
“for I’m sure we’ll need Our Lord’s help in 
what we’ve undertaken.” 

The lamp of the sanctuary burning before the 
Tabernacle lighted their steps through the aisle. 
They knelt for some moments in fervent prayer 
at the foot of the altar, when Mrs. Mathews 
suggested that she had better see if the oil was 
not in danger of failing before morning; but the 
good priest had attended to that. And as Con- 
stance continued kneeling for some time longer, 

230 


a life’s labyrinth. 


231 


with her face buried in her hands, Mathews began 
to feel uneasy. Twilight had faded; night was 
come. 

“Dear Miss Constance,” she whispered, “it is 
growing very dark outside.” 

The young girl then arose from her knees; 
but, instead of retracing her steps toward the 
outer door, which she had taken the precaution 
to lock when they entered, she seized Mathews’ 
hand, and led the astonished woman through the 
sanctuary into the vestry. Then drawing a dark 
lantern from beneath her cloak, she lighted it 
with a match she had brought with her; and 
laying hold of one end of the heavy rug which 
covered the floor, she motioned to the old woman 
to take the other. Filled with amazement, the 
housekeeper obeyed her in silence. Together they 
threw back the carpet about half its length, when 
Constance suddenly remembered that they had 
nothing with which to open the trap-door. For 
a moment she was filled with consternation ; but 
her mind was ever fertile of resources. Unlocking 
the back-door, with lantern in hand she searched 
about the premises until she found a large spade, 
which she judged would do the work, — as the 
door had been opened so recently that it had 
not had time to sink into the groove made by 
the wear of years. Her supposition proved 
correct. Laying the lantern on the floor, she 


232 


A life’s labyrinth. 


inserted the edge of the spade under the stone, 
which, to one unaware of its secret, looked in 
nowise different from the others. Mrs. Mathews 
sprang to her assistance, and it was but the 
work of a moment to throw back the trap-door. 
Fired by the purpose which animated her, full of 
the courage of youth, and fortified by the power 
of prayer, Constance felt no fear. Looking down 
into the black depths of the cavern beneath her, 
she once more seized the lantern ; and, taking the 
hand of the housekeeper in her own, she stepped 
to the first platform. 

“Come!” she said, in a low tone; and, trem- 
bling in every limb, scarcely able to lift one foot 
after the other, the faithful servant followed with 
something of the feelings of one about to be 
buried alive. 

Holding the lantern above her head, so that 
her companion might see her way, Constance 
descended cautiously, leading the old woman, 
until the end of the stairway was reached, and 
the long, dark and narrow passage stretched out 
before them. As on the previous occasion, the 
bats flew about them; and the frightened rats — 
animals of which Mathews had a mortal terror — 
broke the silence with the patter of flying feet, 
and the short, sharp notes of their unmusical 
voices. Mathews felt that she had lived a life- 
time in the moments that passed until the space 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


233 


seemed to grow broader before them, the air a 
trifle less dense and mouldy, and they stood in 
the arched chamber, from the opposite end of 
which had proceeded the gleam of daylight that 
had guided Constance and the priest on their 
visit of the previous Saturday. 

Not a word had been spoken since they entered 
the secret passage-way; but now Constance 
turned the lantern on to its fullest capacity; 
and, swinging it above her head, she said: 

“Look, Mathews! This chamber is directly 
under the place where the old chapel stood. 
There lie the ruins of the altar and walls on 
which Nadand was standing this afternoon : and 
it is by that way he will enter, or try to enter, 
if he should come to-night in search of the lost 
diamonds. I believe I have evidence that he 
buried them in the secret place of which you 
told me to-day; but I do not think it possible 
for him to find them under that pile of broken 
stones. ” 

Unable to utter a single word, the old woman 
clung to the young girl as one overwhelmed 
with terror. 

Once more lowering the lantern, Constance 
continued : 

“Come, Mathews, — come! Do not be afraid. 
Although I doubt that it could be seen from out- 
side, it is well to neglect no precaution. Follow 


234 


A life’s labyrinth. 


me now through this archway. From yonder 
corner we can see and hear without being seen.” 

Half led, half dragged to the spot indicated by 
Constance, Mrs. Mathews at length found voice 
to say, in a sepulchral tone, ludicrously in keeping 
with the place in which they were: 

“But, 0 Miss Constance! what if he should 
come; and, being drunk, wander around in the 
darkness, and come upon us ? Then what should 
we two poor, lone, helpless women do?” 

“Sh!” whispered the girl, drawing her quickly 
through the crumbling archway into the silence 
and horror of darkness beyond. “Sh! not a 
word! I hear some one stumbling among the 
ruined heap above us!” 

The sound of some one stumbling about among 
the loose stones above now became unmistakable. 
Soon a dim light was visible through the rugged 
opening, followed almost immediately by the 
precipitation of the body of a man through the 
narrow passage, which he widened by his effort 
to enter, as it was barred only by a pile of 
broken rock and fallen masonry. He carried a 
lantern, which he deposited upon a flat stone, 
and sat down beside it, burying his head in his 
hands. After remaining in this attitude for a few 
moments he got upon his feet again, although 
not without some difficulty ; for he was evidently 
intoxicated. Groping hither and thither, kicking 


A life’s labyrinth. 


235 


about sucb stones as be could move readily witb 
his feet, he muttered to himself constantly; but, 
to her regret, Constance could not understand a 
word he said, as he spoke in a very low voice. 
At length he seated himself once more, with a 
weary sigh, crying out in French: 

“Alas! it is useless — useless. I am drunk, — 
Nadand is drunk, — yes, but not so drunk as not 
to know that it would be like hunting for a 
needle in a bundle of straw to try to locate the 
spot. The wall is a complete wreck; the stones 
have fallen one on the other. The devil himself 
couldn’t find it. It was a cursed job — a cursed 
job! To think that I should have saved only 
one pitiable diamond out of it all! But he 
deserved the death he died, the tyrant, the beast! 
'Twas a deed of impulse, — a deed well done for 
Lord Stratford, too, if — but, ah! why think of 
him? Something tells me — something tells me — 
I have never believed him dead /” he continued 
in a loud whisper; “and if he lives, something — 
something might occur, — something— something!” 

His voice sank lower and lower; for a short 
time there was silence. Constance, cowering in 
the darkness, with Mrs. Mathews’ hand tightly 
clasped in hers, feared that he had fallen asleep. 
But her fears were unfounded; for he began to 
fumble about the ruins again, peering here and 
there with his lantern, and muttering to himself. 


236 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


“What eyes he had!” he said at last, once 
more speaking aloud. “What fine eyes! They 
haunt me, — they haunt me often in my sleep. 
That girl has a pair exactly like them. I was 
struck by the resemblance the other day. I do 
not like to meet her, and that’s the truth. 
Nadand, you’re a coward, — you are!” 

Silence now, and a gurgling sound as of some 
one drinking from a flask; and a steady gleam 
of light from the lantern, indicating that the 
valet had resumed a sitting position somewhere 
beyond the range of the young girl’s vision. As 
for poor Mrs. Mathews, she was praying silently, 
cowering farther and farther behind Constance 
as the terrible vigil went on. Again a gurgling 
sound, and again, till Constance began to hope 
that, overcome by his potation, the valet would 
soon fall asleep, and they might have an oppor- 
tunity to make their way out of the ruins; as 
she saw that no information was likely to be 
gained from a man in his condition. 

While she thus reflected Nadand began to move 
about, swinging the lantern, advancing danger- 
ously near their place of concealment. He was 
now very much intoxicated, as could be learned 
from his uncertain steps and disconnected mutter- 
ings. Presently, to her great horror, Constance 
heard him say: 

“What’s there — in there beyond those arches? 


a life’s labyrinth. 


237 


Looks very like a hidden vault. Diamonds there. 
Maybe — maybe an old vault. Maybe some rich 
treasures there. Think I’ll see.” 

On he came; he was not twenty feet away 
from where they crouched, but still separated 
from them by the broad pillars of the arches, 
which, not being wide apart, greatly obscured 
his view. 

“0 Mary, Blessed Mother of Mercy, protect 
us!” was the unspoken prayer of Constance, 
as, seizing the black shawl from Mathews’ 
shoulders, she fastened it about her waist, from 
whence it fell below her feet. Springing to a 
piece of rock about two feet from the ground, 
she stood there, erect, the shawl falling in front 
of her, giving her the appearance of great height. 
Then wrapping her cloak about her shoulders, 
head and face, holding it in position with one 
hand so as to conceal all but the eyes, she lifted 
a tiny silver whistle which was suspended to her 
girdle, and blew upon it a long, low, unearthly 
blast, which one in terror might readily imagine 
to be the wail of a departed soul. 

The lantern of the valet flashed in air; as the 
wild sound slowly died away he caught sight 
of what seemed, in his stupid condition and in 
the uncertain light, to be a gigantic figure, gazing 
at him fixedly with the eyes he had so well 
remembered. 


238 


A LIFE S LABYRINTH. 


“My God,” He cried, “His eyes — His very eyes! 
A ghost! a ghost! a ghost!” and ran shrieking 
from the spot, never pausing till he reached the 
upper air. 

“Come!” said the girl, with decision, when she 
could no longer hear his footsteps or the noise 
of falling stones. She had already dragged Mrs. 
Mathews to her feet, gently replacing the shawl 
about her shoulders, and passed her arm about 
the old woman’s waist. 

“Oh, wait, Miss Constance, — wait!” pleaded 
the old woman. “He might meet us up above.” 

“No fear of that,” said the girl. “He is safe 
in his own room by this, I assure you. I want 
to get you to bed now, my good and faithful 
friend. I fear it has been very hard upon you.” 

“In truth it has, my dove,” answered the old 
woman. “I was so frightened that I heard 
scarcely anything he said. But I don’t believe 
he let out aught we hadn’t heard that other 
time; did he, my darling?” 

“No,” said Constance. “But we know now 
that he hid the diamonds in the wall of the old 
chapel, from which we may be able to recover 
them some day. Oh, that Lord Kingscourt 
might come to-morrow and advise me what 
to do!” 

When they reached the vestry they were 
thoroughly chilled. Mrs. Mathews opened a 


A life’s labyrinth. 


23b 


closet and poured out some altar wine, of which 
they both partook. It revived them greatly. 
After a short prayer before the Blessed Sacra- 
ment, they hurried away; and, noiselessly enter- 
ing the house, went to their respective apartments 
and to bed, — but not before Mathews had 
compared her young mistress to “the valiant 
woman of Scripture”; as to whose identity, 
however, she seemed somewhat doubtful : 
evidently confounding her with Judith, Joel, 
and Esther, and considering her virtues a com- 
pendium of those of all three. 

Fatigued in body and mind, Constance did 
not sleep well, until daylight was beginning to 
appear. It seemed to her that she had slept but 
a moment when she heard a light tap at the 
door, which she at once knew to be Mathews’. 
Surprised at the bright sunshine pouring through 
the windows, she bade the housekeeper enter. 

“It is nine o’clock, Miss Constance dear,” 
said Mathews; “and the Marquis and Lord 
Kingscourt have arrived.” 

“Together!” exclaimed Constance, in dismay. 

“Yes, darling,” was the reply. “But I know 
the Marquis does not intend to stay longer than 
to-morrow; for I heard him telling Nadand to 
pack up and be ready by then. You will have 
the morning at your disposal, Miss Constance; 
for Mrs. Ingestre is feeling unusually ill, with one 


240 


A life’s labyrinth. 


of her terrible sick headaches, and they generally 
last two or three days.” 

“Poor lady!” said Constance, always thought- 
ful of others. “How thankful one should be for 
the blessing of perfect health ! And how are you 
this morning, dear Mrs. Mathews?” 

“Much better than I expected to be, my 
blossom,” answered the old woman; “although 
my nerves are all so unstrung that I tremble 
at every sound. I thought I should drop this 
morning passing Nadand in the corridor. He 
looked like the ghost of an evil spirit — so pale 
and horrible.” 

“After his experience of last night,” said Con- 
stance, “I think he will not be likely to wish 
to remain long at Mountheron. What if he 
should escape us ? God knows it is not the desire 
of punishing the guilty that animates me: it is 
only that of vindicating the innocent. But if one 
can not be effected without the other, justice 
must be done.” 

“Trust in God and our Blessed Mother, Miss 
Constance,” said the old housekeeper. “They 
have led you so far: They will not forsake you 
in your sorest need.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


After Constance had breakfasted she went to the 
chapel to ask for help and guidance. On her 
return she took a roundabout way through the 
garden, her thoughts full of Lord Kingscourt and 
the revelation she was about to make to him. Her 
hands loosely clasped in front of her, her eyes 
intent on the ground, she was brought sharply 
to herself by a cry of glad surprise. 

“0 Alice! — Constance! — I know not which to 
call you, but it is indeed your dear self!” ex- 
claimed the voice of Lord Kingscourt. “How 
came you here?” 

“What!” cried the girl, in surprise. “Did 
you not know ? Did you not receive my 
telegram ? ” 

“No,” he answered. “When and where did 
you send it? Is anything wrong? And tell me, 
why are you here?” 

“Are you at leisure just now?” she asked, 
looking timidly about her for a spot where she 
might pour forth her heart unseen. “Have you 
business to transact with the Marquis?” 

“None whatever,” he replied. “I was in 
London yesterday; met the Marquis there, and 

he asked me to come down with him to Mount- 
241 


242 


A life’s labyrinth. 


heron for a day and a night. I confess it was 
with the hope of seeing yon at Cliff bourne that I 
accepted the invitation. Again, Alice, why are 
you here, and what about the telegram?” 

“Call me Constance in future,” she- said, 
looking at him with a smile whose sweetness 
was tempered by sadness. “I like the name of 
Constance better.” 

“It shall be as you wish,” he replied, drawing 
her hand through his arm. 

“I have much to tell you,” she said. “Many 
things of great moment to me have happened 
since I saw you last. I want your counsel, your 
sympathy; for I have much to do. I telegraphed 
you to Cumberlandshire.” 

“The telegram must have reached there after 
I left for London,” said the Earl. 

“Providence sent you,” answered the young 
girl. “And now where can we go that we shall 
not be interrupted?” 

“Are you equal to a walk on the beach?” 
inquired the Earl, anxiously. “You are not 
looking well: you are thin and pale.” 

“I should like a walk on the beach very much,” 
was the reply. “There we shall have the best 
opportunity to converse as long as we choose. 
I came here on Friday, to remain with Mrs. 
Ingestre until Lady Cliffbourne’s return from 
London, where she went on Saturday. That is 


a life’s labyrinth. 


243 


how I happen to be at Mountheron. Why I am 
here I will tell you later on.” 

“At last I hope you are about to clear up the 
mystery of your being in England,” said the 
Earl. “I had resolved, before I came down, to 
use all my efforts to persuade you once more 
to do so.” 

“And I have resolved to do so,” replied Con- 
stance. “I rely upon you henceforward as my 
aid and ally ; and the measure of your assistance 
will be the test of your fidelity, my Lord.” 

Again she met his eyes with a smile in her own, 
and his face wore an expression she had never 
seen before. 

“My darling,” he said, clasping her hand, “you 
look like one who has passed through some ter- 
rible ordeal. Do not keep me in suspense; tell me 
all — all!” 

They had reached the long, level beach. Above 
them stretched the irregular cliffs, from whose 
heights they had descended by the accustomed 
path. A moment before Constance had not 
known how she would begin her remarkable 
story; but a sudden thought came to her, and 
she acted upon it. Dropping Lord Kingscourt’s 
arm, and standing erect before him, in an attitude 
that Lady Cliffbourne often assumed, her head 
thrown back, her arms held loosely at her sides, 
she said: 


244 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“Lord Kingscourt, is there any one of whom 
I remind you — any woman?” 

He answered, without either hesitation or 
surprise : 

“You are remarkably like Lady Cliffbourne. I 
observed it the day we lunched together at the 
castle.” 

“And my eyes, Lord Kingscourt? Are they 
like those of any one you know — or have seen?” 

“They are the most beautiful eyes in the world, 
Constance,” he replied. “I thought so the first 
time I gazed into them. And they lack but one 
quality — that of melancholy — to make them the 
exact counterpart of your father’s eyes.” 

“And you can not divine who I am?” 

The Earl slowly shook his head. 

“Ah, I had forgotten!” cried Constance, with 
deep emotion. “You were too young when it 
happened. You did not know him then. It would 
be impossible for you to conjecture the truth: 
that I resemble my mother in form and feature, 
and that I have the eyes of my father, without 
their melancholy — the heritage of the tragedy 
of years and tears that have separated them so 
long. How could you know, my Lord, that I 
am not Constance Strange, but Constance Strat- 
ford, here to establish that father’s innocence, 
and to restore to him his name, his home, his 
wife, to whom he has been faithful, and who, I 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


245 


believe, has mourned him during all these desolate 
years? ” 

For a moment the Earl was speechless, but his 
habitual presence of mind soon reasserted itself. 

“Constance Stratford!” he exclaimed, seizing 
her hands and clasping them to his bosom. “Yes, 
you are Constance Stratford. No one who once 
heard it could ever doubt it. Now I can underr 
stand all that seemed strange and unreasonable in 
your father’s attitude toward me; now I can see 
the barrier that interposed between us, — the secret 
of his sad and secluded life. But, Constance,” he 
continued, in an impassioned manner, “while I 
think no deed of heroism or filial love impossible 
to her who dared to brave the robber Spiridion, 
of whom a kingdom lay in terror; while I swear 
this moment that no power on earth, no barrier 
of circumstance, shall ever tear you from me, I 
can yet divine how useless is the task you have 
undertaken; how utterly hopeless and terrible 
its results must be.” 

“Ah, my Lord, you are mistaken there!” 
answered Constance, in a voice full of a confidence 
which surprised him. “It is because I know I 
possess the knowledge which will clear my 
beloved father that I have summoned you here.” 

“Do not call me Lord Kingscourt,” pleaded the 
Earl. “Say Alfred, even as I address you by 
your own sweet name. You know that all I can 


246 


A life’s labyrinth. 


do I will do ; but this is a matter that was passed 
upon when we were both children, and I fear it 
is only your filial love which leads you to believe 
that the judgment of man or the decree of Fate 
can now be altered.” 

“Let us walk on,” remarked Constance. “Here 
we may be noticed, and you can not judge until 
I have told you all.” 

The voice of the young girl was not free from 
emotion as she told her tale; but it was strong, 
and her manner fearless, hopeful, and full of 
courage. Her naturally heroic spirit seemed to 
have returned to her. In the face of all she had 
heard and experienced, she impressed Lord Kings- 
court as one almost supernaturally endowed. 
Slowly and clearly she told her sad story, with- 
out a single interruption from her listener; and 
when she had finished the Earl still remained 
silent, astounded, overwhelmed, and withal, in 
spite of himself and his belief in her, somewhat 
incredulous. At length he said: 

“There can be but one explanation of what 
you have told me, dear Constance; yet I have 
often heard my mother say that when your 
uncle was murdered Lord Ingestre was absent 
in Italy ; that he was hurriedly summoned from 
there immediately afterward. While I have never 
heard him express any doubt of your father’s 
guilt, I have several times known him to say 


a life’s labyrinth. 


247 


that it was entirely incompatible with his whole 
character as he knew it. Once in particular, and 
that not long ago, I remember the subject was 
alluded to in some way, and he said that he had 
never felt comfortable in the position so sadly 
thrust upon him. These remarks were unsolicited, 
and they' certainly bear the impress of sincerity. 
If he is that which from your narrative you have 
shown him to be, then he is a hypocrite indeed ; 
and, though he were my dearest friend, I should 
do all in my power to have him brought to 
justice.” 

“I do not think the Marquis actually par- 
ticipated in the murder,” answered the girl. “I 
believe it was a conspiracy between him and the 
valet to obtain possession of the diamonds.” 

“It is inconceivable,” observed the Earl; “and 
yet it may, it must be true. At one time the 
Marquis led a wild life, and I have heard 
that the former Marquis had often paid his 
debts.” 

“Has he been an intimate friend of yours?” 
asked Constance. 

“No,” replied Lord Kingscourt, without hesita- 
tion; “but our families have been friends from 
time immemorial, I might say. When I returned 
from Greece I met him in London, and he invited 
me down; and I was anxious also to renew my 
association with dear Lady Cliffbourne.” 


248 


A life’s labyrinth. 


After a long walk they retraced their steps, — 
Lord Kingscourt having decided that it would 
be best that he should accompany the Marquis 
to London on the morrow, and there present the 
case to his own legal adviser as a hypothetical 
one, without mentioning any names. This solu- 
tion once arrived at, Constance strove to dismiss 
her anxiety for the present, as being useless and 
productive of no result on the matter in question. 
Indeed, she was more calm than the Earl ; 
probably because the subject was one on which 
she had thought and dreamed for months, while 
to him it was a new and terrible revelation. As 
they approached the castle he said: 

“I do not think I am equal to a meeting with 
Ingestre just yet. I will retire to my room, and 
ask to have some luncheon sent up, on a plea of 
a sick headache, — my head does ache, I assure 
you. I wonder that you are not completely upset 
by these terrible occurrences.” 

When they parted he held her hand in his for 
a moment, saying: 

“My darling Constance, you are the bravest 
woman that ever lived! Were I a theosophist, 
I should be tempted to believe that the spirit of 
Joan of Arc had again become embodied in that 
slender frame, which, frail and girlish as it is, has 
already dared and done so much.” 

Constance smiled. “Your thoughts and those 


a life’s labyrinth. 


249 


of Mrs. Mathews run in the same channel,” she 
replied, but would explain no further. 

“A good brave woman she is!” said the Earl. 
“What a Providence that you should have met 
her here! Without her what would you have 
done, friendless and alone as you were? But I 
must see you again before I leave; for we have 
yet much to say to each other. Might we not 
have another walk on the beach after dinner? 
It will be moonlight and the tide low.” 

“I hope the necessity for concealment and 
clandestine meetings will soon be over,” said 
Constance. “Nothing can be more disagreeable 
than to have to steal away in the silence 
of night, as though one were a plotter or dis- 
sembler.” 

“Especially on one’s own domain!” remarked 
the Earl, with a deep sigh. “Alas that it should 
be so!” 

Having promised to meet at the end of the 
shrubbery at nine, they separated, — Constance 
going at once to seek Mrs. Mathews, who had 
been wondering at her long absence, conjecturing 
that she had met Lord Kingscourt. After telling 
her the main points of their interview, she went 
to her own room, where she found a letter from 
her father, dispatched from Cliff bourne that morn- 
ing, where it had been lying a couple of days. 
It was full of despondency — fears for her health 


250 


A life’s labyrinth. 


and even her safety. He begged her to return 
to their solitude; she could even read between 
the lines a hidden fear lest her identity might 
be discovered and herself restrained. This letter 
did not affect her as it would formerly have 
done; for now her heart was full of hope. She 
felt that her purpose was already more than half 
achieved. 

After luncheon she knocked at Mrs. Ingestre’s 
door, but was informed by the maid that she 
was too ill to receive a visitor. Having sent an 
expression of sympathy, she again sought the 
chapel, where she remained for a long time. While 
her lips formulated few prayers, her heart seemed 
nearer to God than it had ever been; she felt as 
one preparing to face an ordeal for which super- 
natural strength is required. Rapt in an ecstasy 
of devotion, she counted neither moments nor 
hours, — heart and soul uttering one continuous 
supplication, which the angels heard and bore to 
the Heavenly Throne, whence Christ looked down 
with kindly, merciful eyes upon the fair young 
girl, whose faith had never known a torturing 
doubt, and whose maiden innocence was unsullied 
by a single stain. 

Suddenly the door opened ; she heard a footstep ; 
and, looking hastily around, saw Lord Kings- 
court approaching her. Kneeling for a few 
moments, with head bowed reverently, at the 


a life’s labyrinth. 


251 


altar’s foot, lie gently touched her on the 
shoulder. 

“Come!” he whispered. And there was some- 
thing in his manner and in the pallor of his face 
that awed her. She arose and followed him, 
locking the door behind her and putting the key 
in her pocket. Then, placing her hand upon his 
arm, she inquired: 

“What has happened?” 

“I have been looking for you for more than an 
hour,” he said, gently. “I have news which I 
scarcely know how to communicate, dear Con- 
stance; yet you must know it.” 

“My poor father!” she exclaimed, in an agony 
of fear and suspense. 

“No, no!” replied the Earl. “I trust he is 
well. But God has taken the weapons of justice 
from our hand: He has been the avenger. In a 
dispute this afternoon — probably similar to the 
one you heard on Sunday evening — Nadand shot 
and seriously wounded Lord Ingestre, and then 
shot himself.” 

“Is he dead?” whispered Constance, trembling 
so violently that the Earl was obliged to put 
his arm around her to support her. 

“No,” answered Lord Kingscourt; “but he is 
dying. The doctor is here, and a magistrate 
has been summoned, as he wishes to make a 
confession.” 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


'Zb'Z 


“Thank God!” cried Constance, — “oh, thank 
God ! My father — my beloved father — my 
darling mother!” 

Then the sky seemed to grow dark, the whole 
earth to turn swiftly round, and her soul to go 
down through black depths of midnight into the 
very valley of the shadow of death. She knew 
no more until, waking from a long swoon, she 
found herself in her own room, lying on the couch, 
Lord Kingscourt and Mrs. Mathews beside her, 
and a portly, red -faced man bending over her, 
with his fingers on her pulse. 

“She will do very well now, — she will do very 
well now, and I am needed elsewhere,” said the 
doctor, hurrying from the room. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


All was confusion in the castle, — that is, if the 
soft fall of hurrying feet on heavily carpeted halls 
and stairs, as they ran hither and thither on 
various errands, may be called confusion. Weak 
from loss of blood, but fully conscious, the Mar- 
quis lay in his darkened chamber, where Mrs. 
Ingestre, with a trusted servant, watched for 
every indication of change in his condition. 
Nervous and exhausted, Constance had allowed 
herself to be undressed by Mathews, and had 
retired to her bed,— the faithful old woman 
lingering close beside her. In another wing of 
the castle, whither he had been taken, by Mrs. 
Ingestre’s orders, immediately after the dreadful 
occurrence — as his own room opened directly 
from the dressing-room of the Marquis,— Nadand 
lay stretched upon the bed from which he was 
never again to rise. 

Filled with anxiety, but outwardly calm, Lord 
Kingscourt gravitated from one room to another, 
now knocking at the door of Constance’s chamber 
to hear how she felt; then slipping softly into 
that of the Marquis; finally pausing outside of 
the door of the room to which Nadand had been 
carried, where a few frightened servants had 

253 


254 


a life’s labyrinth. 


gathered, speaking in faint whispers and eager 
for news. At length a slight commotion at the 
end of the corridor told him that something 
■unusual was occurring; and he soon caught 
sight of the magistrate, accompanied by his 
clerk. Lord Kingscourt stepped forward. 

“Mr. Vivian, I presume?” he said. 

4 ‘The same,” replied the functionary of the law, 
with some dignity. “And you, sir, if I mistake 
not, are the Earl of Kingscourt?” 

“At your service,” returned the Earl. “I pre- 
sume you know what is required of you here, 
Mr. Vivian?” 

“I am to draw up a testament, I believe. A 
very sad accident, this. I understand a pistol 
exploded accidentally, and that his lordship’s life 
is also in danger.” 

“Not so bad as that. His wound is serious, but 
not dangerous. Nadand, the valet, is said to be 
dying. I will see if the doctor can admit us at 
once.” 

Showing Mr. Vivian into a small waiting room, 
Lord Kingscourt returned to the door of the 
chamber where the valet lay, and knocked very 
softly. 

The doctor came to the door. 

“The magistrate is here,” said the Earl. “Shall 
I direct him to come in?” 

“Yes,” was the reply. “This man has not 


a life’s labyrinth. 


255 


much longer to live, and wishes to have some- 
thing put on paper which seems to weigh heavily 
on his mind.” 

Lord Kingscourt retired; but, returning soon 
with Mr. Vivian, requested that the clerk be left 
in the ante-room, and at the same time asked 
that he be permitted to be present at the pro- 
ceedings which were about to take place. 

“The presence of Mr. Vivian is a necessity,” he 
said; “that of his clerk is not. I take it that he, 
Mr. Vivian, is an honorable man, and that all he 
will hear in this room will be safe with him until 
the time arrives to disclose it. I have an idea of 
the nature of the confession Nadand is about to 
make; and I think, Doctor, it will be best to 
exclude all unnecessary witnesses. Two are 
necessary; let them be you and myself.” 

“Very well,” replied the doctor, much impressed 
by the Earl’s earnestness and evident knowledge 
of the situation. 

Two attendants who stood at the foot of the 
bed were requested to retire; there remained, 
beside the dying man, the Earl, the doctor, and 
the magistrate. A table with writing materials 
was placed in position ; the doctor took his 
station on the bed beside the valet, holding his 
hand it order to feel the pulse. On the other 
side Lord Kingscourt leaned over him. Great 
cloths swathed his head and face,— he was slowly 


256 


a life’s labyrinth. 


bleeding to death from a wound in his forehead. 
His face was ghastly pale ; his weird, cruel, black 
eyes gleamed feverishly from their sockets, like 
midnight pools of whose unfathomed depths he 
alone knew the horrid secret. 

“Nadand,” said the Earl, as he bent his head 
within reach of the man’s vision — for he seemed 
to be staring straight in front of him, — “Nadand, 
you know me?” 

“Yes,” replied the valet. “You are Lord Kings- 
court. Is the Marquis dead?” 

“No,” said the Earl. “He is neither dead nor 
likely to die.” 

“Good!” cried the valet, with a sigh of relief. 
“One sin less to answer for. But I’m going the 
long journey, and I have something to say.” 

“The magistrate is here,” continued the Earl. 
“Witnesses will be needed, so the doctor and I 
will remain also.” 

“Very well,” replied the valet. “Give me a 
moment’s time.” Covering his eyes with one 
hand, he kept them closed for a short time; then, 
extending the hand to the Earl, “Help me,” he 
said, and laid it in his kindly, outstretched palm. 

All the horror which Lord Kingscourt felt for 
the wretch who lay before him was lost in the 
presence of the shadow of death. His main pur- 
pose now was to give him all the assistance 
possible in making clear the terrible story oJ 


A life’s labyrinth. 


257 


crime lie was about to reveal. The clock on the 
mantel pointed at nine. A few moments after 
ten, between frequent pauses for breath, the 
administration of strengthening cordials by the 
doctor, and occasional necessary questions put 
by the Earl, the confession of the valet had 
resolved itself into the following narrative: 

“ My name is Pierre Louis Nadand. I was born 
in Paris, and lived there until I was twenty-five 
years of age. At that time I entered the service 
of the late Marquis of Mountheron as valet. He 
was a hard master and an evil -living man. I 
knew all his secrets,— he trusted me entirely. He 
had no deep affections, but many strong aversions 
and hatreds. The turning of a hair could change 
him from a friend to an enemy. He had always 
been kind to his half-brother, Lord Stratford, 
because the young man had never gone counter 
to his wishes. He was never kind to inferiors; 
but he depended much upon me, owing to his 
infirmities, and the knowledge I had of his pri- 
vate affairs. He often struck, kicked, and other- 
wise insulted me. I endured his moods, because 
afterward he would present me with a couple 
of sovereigns, and I was fond of money. There 
was a certain young relative of the Marquis, 
dissipated, always in debt. He made no con- 
cealment of his vices, therefore the Marquis had 
an admiration for him. He was a hypocrite, like 


258 


A life’s labyrinth. 


myself; for, although he professed a liking for his 
kinsman, he cared only for his gifts. 

“The Marquis had a great passion for 
diamonds. He kept a large number in a private 
drawer of his secretary. When recovering from 
paroxysms of pain, he would sometimes order me 
to fetch them to him, — they seemed to give him 
comfort. One day I was about to replace them 
in the drawer of the secretary, which stood in 
his sitting - room, when this young relative 
entered. He had heard of those diamonds: his 
sharp eyes divined what I had in the small 
chamois bags, but he said nothing. From the 
loud talking that ensued in the next room, into 
which he had passed, I knew there was a stormy 
interview. The young man came out, his face 
black with anger ; he did not look at me. When 
I returned to the Marquis he said : ‘ That fellow 
is insufferable. He wanted more money, but 
more he shall not have from me. I have paid 
his debts for the last time.’ 

“I am a light sleeper, — that night I was 
awakened by a noise in the sitting-room. I 
struck a match and went in. There, by the light 
of a single candle, stood the young nobleman, a 
bag of diamonds in either hand. Without per- 
mitting me to utter a word, he drew me back 
to my own bedroom. ‘Nadand,’ he said, ‘I have 
been caught at a desperate game. I must have 


a life’s labyrinth. 


259 


money to pay my debts. These gems are but 
a drop in the bucket of his wealth. Let us divide. 
I make you a fair offer. In any event, if the theft 
is discovered, you will be accused by the Marquis. 
I will give you half if you promise to say nothing 
about it.’ 

“ I have always been fond of money. My 
ambition has been, after a certain age, to set up 
as a kind of country gentleman in my own dear 
land of France. I held out my hand, then drew 
it back again. - 

“‘No,’ I said; ‘I shall be accused in any case. 
He may ask for them to-morrow.’ 

“‘To-morrow he goes to Exeter,’ he answered ; 
‘and you will go with him. When you return, 
the diamonds can have disappeared.’ 

“‘He carries them with him,’ said I. 

“‘Will he ask for them while there?’ 

“‘No, it is not likely,’ I replied. ‘It is merely 
for safety.’ 

“‘Here,’ said the young man, emptying the 
diamonds from one little chamois sack into his 
handkerchief, and handing me the bag. ‘Fill this 
with pebbles, keep the other fo* yourself; and 
you can show him both to-morrow, if he should 
ask for them before starting. He will not want 
to see their contents.’ 

“ ‘No, he will not,’ said I. ‘But when he does, — 
then what?’ 


2G0 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“ * You can disappear during the next fortnight. 
Disguise yourself in London and sail for America. 
There you will never be captured.’ 

‘‘The bait was too strong. I let him do as he 
would. The next morning he left the castle ; and 
that night, after drinking considerably, taking one 
diamond from the bag I held, I sent the gem to 
my brother to dispose of for me. The others I 
deposited behind a loose stone in the wall of the 
old chapel, back of the altar; thinking that the 
place safest from detection. The next day my 
master was not able to go to Exeter; the day 
after the Earl of Cliffbourne came, and their 
quarrel began. After that there was no thought 
of looking at diamonds. And some fatality held 
me to the spot,— I could not get away, though 
my mind was filled with the fear of discovery. 
Meanwhile the young kinsman had gone to Italy. 

“On the night of the rupture with Lord Strat- 
ford I had resolved to leave Mountheron the 
following day. When all were asleep, I had 
determined to take the diamonds from their 
hiding-place; and, disguising myself in a rustic’s 
frock and breeches, to make my way to London, 
thence to America. The Marquis was in a savage 
mood that night. I had seen him safely in bed, 
however, and was sitting in my own room, when 
he summoned me, asking for his diamonds, w T hich 
he wished to examine, in order to see whether 


A life's labyrinth. 


261 


there were enough for a complete set for his future 
wife. I knew not what to do or say. He bade 
me hurry, in his usual tyrannical fashion, over- 
whelming me with abuse. Goaded, I retorted in 
a very disrespectful manner. In a fury he lifted 
his hand and struck me in the face — on the 
same spot where a blow from a silver paper- 
weight from his hand had already left a scar. 
Then something terrible rose up within me. 
Riches, an easy life in a foreign land, were all 
within my grasp. One thrust in the right spot, 
and all would be over; then, after a while — a 
very little while — I could take my prize and 
disappear. I stealthily took out my pocket-knife 
and looked him defiantly in the face. He had no 
suspicion, for once more he opened his lips to 
assail me with a vile epithet. I rushed upon him. 
I struck well, for the blade pierced his heart. He 
sank back with a moan, and I withdrew. 

“At that moment I heard a footstep in the 
passage. I knew it,— it was that of Lord Strat- 
ford. Should he enter, I was lost. But he passed; 
and for the present, at least, all was well. 
I sat for half an hour or so in the ante-room, 
uncertain what to do next. Then I had the 
presence of mind to enter the room of my 
dead master, withdraw the knife from his wound, 
steal down the stairs, through the garden, and 
fling it over the old moat. After that I returned, 


262 


A life’s labyrinth. 


undressed and went to bed, but not to sleep, — 
I have not slept well since that night. The next 
morning I dressed myself carefully, — there were 
no stains of blood upon my clothing; then I 
gave the alarm. What need to tell the rest of 
the story? It is well known. I wish to clear 
the memory of a dead man from disgrace; per- 
haps it may lighten my own punishment in the 
next world.” 

“Your accomplice in the theft, — is he living?” 
inquired the magistrate. “If so, he should be 
brought to justice? What was his name?” 

“I decline to say more,” replied Nadand, in a 
feeble voice. “He had been a good enough master 
to me,— a good enough master.” Then, not 
realizing that he had betrayed himself, he gazed 
about him. 

“We need not question him further, Mr.Vivian,” 
interposed the Earl. “I have material in my 
possession which renders it unnecessary.” 

“One word more” said the magistrate, bowing 
to Lord Kingscourt and turning to the dying 
man. “Did you shoot Lord Ingestre with mur- 
derous intent, or was it accidental?” 

“There had been a dispute,” replied the valet. 
“My nerves were unsettled— something I had 
seen the night before. I wished to leave Mount- 
heron. I — I — demanded money of the Marquis. 
He refused,— he could not give it to me at once. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


263 


I had been drinking for two or three days. I 
threatened to kill myself. He struggled with me 
for the pistol — it went off — he fell. Fearing that 
I had killed him, I shot myself.” 

“And the diamonds, — what became of them?” 
asked the magistrate, alert in the performance 
of his duty. 

“Some stones fell— part of the wall, — soon after 
the Marquis died. I thought them safe; but I 
lost the diagram I had made, and could not find 
it again. Three years later the walls crumbled, 
— I could never find them. But they are there, 
I know, under the ruins of the old chapel; and 
there they will be found when I am gone. That 
is all I have to say.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


After finishing his confession, the sick man closed 
his eyes; his lips trembled. The doctor gave him 
a drink. The Earl still stood at the bedside. The 
magistrate’s pen rattled over the paper. At length 
he lifted his head, looked about him, and said : 

“The witnesses w T ill now sign.” 

Lord Kingscourt and the doctor affixed their 
signatures. 

“May I speak to him alone?” said the Earl to 
the doctor, as the magistrate prepared to take 
his leave. 

“Certainly, my Lord,” answered that gentle- 
man, and quietly left the room with Mr. Vivian. 

“Nadand,” said the Earl when they were alone, 
once more returning to the bedside and looking 
earnestly at the dying man, upon whose face the 
grey shadows of death were gathering. 

“Yes, my Lord,” replied the valet. 

“It may ease your passage to eternity, Nadand, 
to learn that Lord Stratford and his daughter 
are both alive.” 

“Are you sure?” asked the valet. 

“Yes,” returned the Earl. “I have but recently 
learned it, but it is true.” 

“Ah! ” said the valet, with a quick, short gasp. 

264 


a life’s labyrinth. 


265 


“Then I saw no ghost. I saw him in the vault. 
I thought they were his very eyes.” 

“You did but fancy it,” said the Earl: “he is 
alive.” 

“Well, I shall be gone when he comes here 
again,” said the valet. “Is he in England, my 
Lord?” 

“No: far from England,” answered the Earl. 
“I thought it might relieve your mind to know.” 

“Yes, it does,” said the valet, faintly. 

“Nad and,” continued the Earl, “you are not 
a Catholic, I think?” 

“No,” said the man, curtly. “I believe in 
nothing.” 

“God is just, but He is also merciful. Try to 
follow me.” And the Earl, kneeling beside him, 
recommended tlie dying man, in a few touching 
and improvised words, to the mercy of his 
Saviour. The valet lay impassive, making no 
sound; while the faint, impalpable noises of the 
night stealing in through the open windows, and 
the solemn roar of the distant waves as they 
dashed against the cliffs, mingled with the im- 
pressive words of the brave young Christian 
interceding for the sinner, dying in his sin. 
Silent, scarcely breathing, he made not the 
slightest sign. 

At this moment the doctor opened the door, 
and, looking cautiously in, entered. Lord Kings- 


266 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


court still remained kneeling ; he no longer prayed 
aloud, but softly, silently, from the depths of his 
heart. Some time passed. The doctor approached 
nearer to the bedside, and, leaning over, watched 
attentively the lips of the valet. He shook his 
head, placed his hand under the bedclothes, allow- 
ing it to rest for a moment on the heart. With- 
drawing it, he said: 

“All is over. May the Lord have mercy on 
him! ” 

“Amen! ” replied the Earl solemnly, arising from 
his knees and preparing to leave the room. 

“Stay, my Lord,” called the doctor, detaining 
him. “Before I summon the servants I must give 
you this. Mr. Vivian requested me to do so.” 

It was Nadand’s confession, which the Earl 
placed in an inner pocket of his coat ; and rapidly 
going in the direction of Lord Ingestre’s room, he 
knocked at the door. Finding that the Marquis 
was doing well, he sought his own room and 
threw himself into a chair. “Thank God,” he 
said “that it is not as bad as we feared! Roland 
Ingestre is, at least, not a murderer; and though 
this makes it hard lines for him, he deserves it. 
Neither will he grudge Lord Stratford to come 
into his own. I know he is not entirely ignoble.” 

For a long time he sat in thought; at length, 
going to the secretary, he drew forth paper and 
envelopes and wrote a short letter. After it 


a life’s labyrinth. 


267 


was finished he rang the bell for a servant. 

“Post this at once, James, — or rather put it 
in the mail -bag, so that it may leave in the 
morning.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” said the man, the solemnity 
of whose countenance was in accordance with 
the terrible events of the past few hours. The 
letter was addressed to “Edward Strange, Esq., 
Villa Scio, Corinth, Greece.” 

The Earl had not eaten or drunk since midday, 
and now the claims of the body began to assert 
themselves. He went in search of Mathews, 
whom he found in her sitting-room surrounded 
by a group of curious servants. They vanished 
at his approach. 

“I am hungry, Mathews,” he said, after they 
had gone; “and if you will allow me, I will take 
something to eat here in your sitting-room.” 

Mathews lost no time in summoning the butler, 
who soon returned with a comfortable meal. 

When he had finished Mathews said: 

“My Lord, this news will be telegraphed to 
London, and Lady Cliff bourne will come down 
at once.” 

“I have thought of that; but it does not 
matter much now,” said the Earl. “I have the 
confession of Nadand in my possession; no one 
knows of it beside, save the doctor and Mr. 
Vivian, who can be trusted to keep silent till the 


268 


A life’s labyrinth. 


time arrives to reveal all. Nad and has passed 
to eternity, but the Marquis will soon be out 
of danger. Until he is perfectly convalescent, 
nothing need be disclosed. Bad as it was, 
Mathews, it is not nearly so terrible as we had 
feared.” 

He then related that, by the confession of the 
valet, the Marquis was entirely innocent of the 
murder, — which information was indeed a great 
relief to the good woman’s heart. 

“Miss Constance must be kept as quiet as 
possible,” added the Earl. “I wonder she has 
been able to endure the strain of such terrible 
revelations as have crowded upon her for the last 
few months, but especially these past four days. 
Watch her assiduously, Mathews.” 

“Your Lordship does not need to remind me 
to take care of my own sweet lamb,” said the 
housekeeper, a trifle reproachfully. “Not even 
her own mother could or would guard her better 
than I shall. And, oh, to think of it, your Lord- 
ship, — to think that they will be together again 
at Mountheron! Of course it will be printed in 
the papers, my Lord, that the whole world may 
know the true story?” 

“Yes,” said the Earl. “But not yet, — not until 
all has been privately settled with Lord Ingestre. 
I think that duty must devolve upon me. He 
must know of Nadand’s confession, of course.” 


A LIFE’S LABYRINTH. 


269 


Far into the night they talked, Mathews 
occasionally stealing away to peep at Constance 
to see if she was resting easily. She had given 
her a sleeping draught, which had quickly taken 
effect; and when the Earl arose to retire, Mrs. 
Mathews reported her as “sleeping like an angel.” 
The accounts from the Marquis being equally 
favorable, Lord Kingscourt sought his chamber. 
As he turned into the corridor leading to it, he 
caught sight of the gleam of the lamp which 
burned at the extremity of the passage close to 
the door of the room where the man who had 
desolated so many lives, and, reaping the wages 
of sin, had also destroyed his own, lay sleeping 
the eternal sleep of death. 


CHAPTER XX. 


The Marquis passed a good night; the news of 
Nadand’s death being withheld from him, how- 
ever, as the doctor feared fever and a consequent 
relapse. The wound — a severe one of its kind — 
was in the fleshy part of the arm; but, as the 
bullet had been extracted without difficulty, all 
promised to go well. 

Having received satisfactory news of him, the 
Earl went at once to inquire for Constance, whom 
he knew must be very anxious concerning the 
confession of the valet. Having learned from 
Mathews that she was with Mrs. Ingestre, he 
knocked at the door of that lady’s morning-room, 
and was at once admitted. The late tragic event 
had roused Mrs. Ingestre from her state of semi- 
invalidism. This morning she seemed in perfect 
health. After the customary salutations, she said: 

“When you came in I was saying to Miss 
Strange that Roland refuses to attach any blame 
to Nadand, who, he insists, was merely preparing 
to clean the revolver, believing it to have been 
unloaded. He has told me to ask you, Lord 
Kingscourt, that the affair be kept as quiet as 
possible, and he is especially anxious that it does 
not get into the newspapers. I am afraid it will 

270 


a life’s labyrinth. 


271 


already have appeared ; and, for my part, I can 
not see what end can be subserved by silence. 
Nadand being dead, it will be far better to let 
the true state of affairs become known ; although 
I do not wonder that poor Roland is desirous of 
keeping it quiet. Mountheron has already had 
more than its share of horrors.” 

“ Events will shape themselves, ~my dear Mrs. 
Ingestre,” the Earl answered, quietly. “The 
principal thing at present is that the Marquis 
should make a speedy and thorough recovery.” 

“Mathews tells me that they have already 
taken the body away,” continued Mrs. Ingestre. 
“I was so relieved to hear it! Unfortunate man ! 
Under the circumstances, I think it was best that 
it should have been done at once. Do not you? ” 

“They have not interred it so soon?” asked 
Constance, with a shudder. 

Lord Kingscourt turned toward her. 

“No: it will remain at the room of the under- 
taker until to-morrow,” he replied. “Arrange- 
ments have just been made to that effect.” 

Constance sighed deeply. Her face was very 
pale; her anxiety looked forth from her eyes. 
Eagerness to hear what the confession of the 
valet had been, with the dread that even at the 
last something might have occurred to destroy 
her hopes, made her nervous and restless. The 
Earl was equally desirous of communicating 


272 


a life’s labyrinth. 


what lie knew. But lie was at a loss how to 
secure a speedy interview ; mentally wishing that 
something might occur to call Mrs. Ingestre away 
for a time, in order that he might arrange one. 
While he was trying to find a way out of this 
difficulty that lady herself came to his assistance. 
Looking closely at the young girl for a few 
moments, she~remarked in a sympathetic voice: 

“Miss Strange seems pale and worn. No won- 
der. I feel it my duty to write at once to Lady 
Cliffbourne, who will surely read the news in 
the papers and will be uneasy about Roland. And 
you also, Alfred, are not looking your best to-day. 
I propose that you take Miss Strange to the 
garden until luncheon time ; and try both of you, 
to divert your minds from this terrible affair.” 

“Thanks!” said the Earl, with alacrity; and 
there came such a glad look into the expressive 
eyes of her young visitor that the good lady 
found herself wondering for a time whether she 
might not have made a mistake, and whether the 
sensible outward demeanor of the girl whom she 
found so charming might not conceal a romantic 
nature. But at once rejecting the thought as 
unworthy herself and its object, she dismissed 
them, and went to her task, in which she soon 
became absorbed. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Having sought the seclusion of a friendly arbor 
at the lower end of the garden, the Earl placed 
Nadand’s confession in the hand of Constance. 
As soon as she perceived what it was she said: 

“No, I can not read it; but I will listen quietly 
while you read it to me.” 

When he had finished Constance drew a long 
sigh of relief. 

“Oh,” she said, clasping her small hands tightly 
together and raising her beautiful eyes to heaven, 
“I am thankful to God — He alone knows how 
thankful— that my cousin is at least not a 
murderer! Had he been such as we thought, 
the terror and anguish I should have experienced 
would have far surpassed any joy at seeing my 
dear father at home again and reunited to my 
mother. My mind could not face the consequences 
to him.” 

“Constance,” said the Earl, regarding her with 
admiring eyes, “you are an angel! Tell me, 
where in all the wide world is there another 
who would have given him whom she believed 
to be the cause of her father’s ruin a single 
kindly, much less profoundly unselfish, thought? 
No, there is not one!” 


273 


274 


a life’s labyrinth. 


“Ah, do not speak thus,” she replied, implor- 
ingly. “You little know me. Hard and bitter 
thoughts have been mine, many and many a 
time during these few short weeks, that yet have 
seemed a lifetime. But if in my heart I have 
never wilfully harbored a single thought that 
could be traced to a feeling of revenge, the merit 
is not mine, nor does it proceed from any virtue 
on my own part. It is the inheritance from a 
father who has the silent patience of a martyr; 
and, like a martyr, not a single vindictive feeling.” 

“You love your father, Constance, and he is 
worthy of your love; and you are very like him,” 
added Lord Kingscourt. “And yet you suggest 
your mother so strongly that I wonder all the 
world has not recognized your identity.” 

“My world, until now, has been small indeed,” 
she answered, sadly. “Those whom I have met 
here, as you know, have seen a likeness; but it 
was only natural, under present circumstances, 
that they should have been slow to know me 
for my real self.” Then smiling, with her usual 
charm of manner, she continued: “But put me 
out of the question altogether, I beg, until, as 
part of the whole, I can sink my identity where 
it belongs — where I am anxious it should be 
recognized as soon as possible. How shall it be 
done? When will it be time to write to my 
father and tell him all? I abide altogether by 


a life’s labyrinth. 


275 


your counsel. But should he not come to 
England at once?” 

“I have already written to Lord Stratford,” 
replied the Earl, “ telling him the main facts. I 
have left it to his own judgment as to whether 
he should start for England immediately or 
await another communication from me. For 
the present the Marquis, as well as Lady Cliff- 
bourne, must remain in ignorance of the truth. 
It will be a hard matter to break the news to 
Ingestre; but once he has learned that his past 
connection with Nadand has been discovered, I 
fancy he will retire from England as quietly and 
as speedily as possible, — at least for a time. 
There will be no trouble then, and he will not 
suffer. Since his occupation of Mountheron, his 
affairs have been very prosperous ; and your 
father is not the man to demand an account of 
him.” 

“And my darling mother?” inquired Constance. 
“How to reveal it — how long yet to conceal it 
from her? What is the best way?” 

“You and I and two or three others — trusty 
all — hold the key in our own hands,” said the 
Earl. “We must have a breathing space in 
whioh to decide. A few days more or less now 
will not matter. I think Lord Stratford should 
be here in England before she learns anything.” 

“I feel that you are right,” replied the young 


276 


a life’s labyrinth. 


girl; “and I know, moreover, that Divine Provi- 
dence, which has directed all this wonderful chain 
of circumstances, will not fail us now. We have 
only to wait and pray.” 

“I shall not be surprised to hear that Mrs. 
Ingestre has received a telegram from Lady Cliff- 
bourne before the day is over,” remarked the 
Earl. “And it is more than probable that if the 
newspaper reports of the injuries of the Marquis 
are exaggerated, as generally happens in such 
cases, she will come down to Cliff bourne.” 

“I should like that,” said Constance. “The 
place already seems to me far more like home 
than this. There I saw my dear mother first, 
and it is there I should wish to reveal myself 
to her.” 

“You will like Mountheron equally well, once 
you have bidden adieu to all these difficulties, 
and have had time to forget your unpleasant 
experiences here,” said the Earl. “ It is a wonder- 
fully fine old place, and you have all an English- 
woman’s pride of ancestry and love of the home 
of her nativity.” 

“Yes,” replied Constance, “It was my home, 
and it will be again — ” 

“But not for long,” interposed the Earl. 
u There is not a fairer home than Kingscourt 
in all England ; and that, my dearest, will shortly 
I trust, be yours.” 


a life’s labyrinth. 


277 


“It is too soon, far too soon, to speak of 
that,” she answered, turning away from his eager 
glance, but there was a happy smile upon her 
blushing face. 

“You are right, Constance,” said Lord Kings- 
court. “ I must not be selfish. Let us say instead 
that we shall soon have two homes, between 
which we shall divide the year— Kingscourt and 
Mountheron.” 

“That sounds better,” replied the young girl; 
“but I refuse even to think of any home but one 
for a long time yet.” 

The Earl’s face looked grave, — so grave that 
Constance laughed for the first time in many 
days. 

“What time is it?” she asked, still brightly 
smiling. 

The Earl drew out his watch. 

“Just one o’clock,” he said. “Time for 
luncheon, is it not?” 

As he replaced the watch Constance caught 
sight of the slender ring upon his little finger, 
where the Rosary circlet, which was now her 
own, had been worn. 

“Ah,” she said, “you are wearing my little 
ring! I had forgotten it.” 

“Constance,” said the Earl, squaring himself 
to his full six feet of height, “you do not 
love me!” 


278 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“I do not?” she inquired, a trifle surprised at 
his solemn and decisive tone. “And why not, 
pray ? ” 

“If you did, you could not have forgotten 
having given me this ring, which has never left 
my finger since the day you placed it there, — 
which will never leave it while I live.” 

“I had not forgotten it at all,” she said. “How 
can you think it, seeing, as you do whenever we 
meet, that I have yours upon my finger. But 
what I meant was that I had not thought of 
that ring since.” 

“Or even wondered whether I was wearing it, 
or cared enough to glance at my hand to see if 
it was there,” continued the Earl. “Provoking 
girl! I am but a second thought with you, I 
know; and yet I must be content with that, or 
claim your affection not at all. I could — I would 
not ask you to love your noble father less in 
order that you may love me more. But — ” 

“0 Spiridion!” exclaimed Constance, laugh- 
ingly, “what do I not owe you!” 

Then, with the swiftness of thought, before the 
words were fully spoken, her mood changed ; for 
they had reminded her of all that, for weal or 
woe, had taken place since that memorable day, 
bringing her back to the seriousness of the present. 

The Earl at once perceived the change, and his 
heart smote him. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


279 


“Forgive me, Constance!” he said. “I was 
childish to doubt your love, and selfish to allude 
to it at this time, when other events make it, 
for the present, but a secondary consideration. 
Do forgive me, dearest! I shall not again offend.” 

“I know you better than you know yourself,” 
she said, gently; “and I am not offended. Had 
we not better return ? Luncheon will be waiting.” 

The Earl and Constance walked rapidly back 
to the castle, and went at once to the dining- 
room, through the open door of which came the 
sound of voices. Mrs. Ingestre was seated in 
her accustomed place; and at her right, with a 
face full of importance and eager curiosity, sat 
Lady Markham. Without preliminary salutation, 
and before either the Earl or Constance could 
speak, she exclaimed: 

“I had just said to Mrs. Ingestre that it would 
be useless to wait luncheon longer. It was ready 
half an hour ago ; but, I repeat, I had been telling 
Mrs. Ingestre that if Lord Kingscourt and Miss 
Strange had gone walking together, they would 
so lose themselves in reminiscences of the past 
that they would most certainly forget the time. 
And how are you both ? ” 

“Thanks!” answered Constance, with a peculiar 
intonation not lost on Mrs. Ingestre. “I am 
very well, and I do not think Lord Kingscourt 
is ailing.” 


230 


A life’s labyrinth. 


So saving she took her seat; while the Earl 
added, somewhat frigidly: 

“Miss Strange having done duty for both, Lady 
Markham, it remains but for me to ask when 
you arrived.” 

“Just after you went to walk,” said Mrs. 
Ingestre, who had not yet spoken, but who had 
been regarding Constance since her entrance 
with a reflective, uncertain gaze, which told her 
at once that Lady Markham had been doing 
characteristic work during the time she had 
been alone with Mrs. Ingestre. 

“I felt obliged to drive over from the Thul- 
strups, where I was staying, as soon as I heard 
the dreadful news,” said Lady Markham. “I 
shall not return there but go directly to Cliff- 
bourne from here, as I believe Lady Alicia will 
come down at once. I can not advise, you 
Miss Strange, what you had best do. Probably 
you had better remain here until you are sent 
for.” 

“That is what I intend to do, Lady Markham,” 
answered Constance, quietly. “I am here through 
the kindness of Mrs. Ingestre and the wish of 
Lady Cliff bourne ; therefore I shall not leave 
until I am sent for.” 

At that moment Mrs. Ingestre caught Lord 
Kingscourt’s eyes fixed with a look of admiration 
on the face of Constance,— a face so sweet, so 


a life’s labyrinth. 


281 


pure, so beautiful, so full of dignity and maidenly 
self-respect, that she at once swept to the winds 
the insinuations with which Lady Markham had 
been filling her ears during the last hour ; saying 
to herself: 

“If he does love her, it is with a true and 
honorable love; and as for her, if it be so, I do 
not believe she is aware of it. Nothing could be 
more unconscious than her manner. I can never 
doubt them.” 

Having once arrived at this charitable con- 
clusion, Mrs. Ingestre quickly resumed her usual 
manner. Constance and the Earl had both fol- 
lowed her kindly thought, and were profoundly 
grateful ; and Lady Markham’s by - play of 
innuendo fell on barren ground, save that Mrs. 
Ingestre could not refrain from looking at her 
reproachfully whenever she made a particularly 
spiteful remark. But when they were alone, after 
luncheon, she pointedly informed Lady Markham 
that she did not believe one word of her asper- 
sions, and that it was a grave matter to sow 
seeds of suspicion against the conduct of a young 
girl whose every act bore evidence of the highest 
refinement and virtue. 

“Refinement — yes!” exclaimed Lady Markham. 
“Probably she is, on one side at least, of good 
lineage; but virtue! ah, my poor Mrs. Ingestre! 
you lead such a quiet life that you can not dis- 


282 


A life’s labyrinth. 


tinguish between virtue and hypocrisy when 
worn with so attractive a mien.” 

“But you tell me, Lady Markham,” said Mrs. 
Ingestre dryly, “that Alicia also has implicit 
faith in her, despite your warnings and your 
conviction that she is an impostor. She, at least, 
mingles considerably with the world, if I do not; 
and yet she does not doubt Miss Strange.” 

“She. has bewitched her — and everyone but 
myself ! ” cried Lady Markham, very much 
excited, pointing a long, lean forefinger to give 
emphasis to her words. “But the day will 
come— and it is not far distant,— Mrs. Ingestre, 
when you and Alicia will remember, perhaps to 
your cost, that Caroline Markham declared that 
this girl, who calls herself Constance Strange, is 
not what she seems to be.” 

Prophetic words these ; and in after days, when 
they recurred to her who had uttered them so 
often, the memory was not as pleasant as she 
could have wished. 

About four o’clock she departed for Cliffbourne, 
refusing an invitation to pass the night at 
Mountheron, as she wished to be on hand to 
receive her dear Alicia, if she should decide to 
come down to Cliffbourne after hearing of what 
had occurred. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


Lady Markham had hardly left the castle when 
a telegram arrived from Lady Alicia Cliffbourne, 
which Lord Kingscourt answered at once. This 
was followed next day by a letter, which had 
crossed that of Mrs. Ingestre on the road. In 
going downstairs Lady Cliffbourne had wrenched 
her ankle, and the doctor would not allow her 
to move for a few days. From that time letters 
were interchanged daily, as Lady Cliffbourne felt 
extremely anxious about the Marquis, who was 
slowly recovering. Lord Kingscourt was now 
permitted to visit him. Though not yet able to 
leave his room, he was impatient of confinement. 

The health of Constance began to give way 
under the suspense; but, owing to the tender 
care of Mathews, the solicitude of Mrs. Ingestre, 
who could not understand the cause of it, or of 
the anxiety of Lord Kingscourt, she contrived to 
keep on her feet. He was waiting to hear from 
her father before taking further action. 

On the fifth day a long letter came from Lord 
Stratford. It was addressed to Lord Kingscourt, 
but he and Constance read it together. The 
strange and sudden turn affairs had taken Lord 
Stratford could as yet scarcely realize. But his 

283 


284 


a life’s labyrinth. 


letter was full of praise for his noble girl, and 
for him who had been her counsellor and aid. At 
the close he announced his immediate departure 
for England. Giving the address of a quiet hotel 
where they might confer together, he asked the 
Earl to meet him in London, promising to tele- 
graph him upon his arrival. 

On the receipt of this information, Constance 
felt it almost impossible to preserve a calm 
exterior. Restless and nervous, she roamed from 
nook to nook of the old garden, sometimes 
accompanied by Lord Kingscourt, but more 
often alone. 

Meantime the Earl had a very disagreeable 
duty to perform, which he thought it best to 
defer until everything was in readiness for action. 
Two more days passed. He was resting in his 
bedroom when a telegram arrived, which read: 

“Reached London this morning. Come as soon as possible- 

“S.” 

Having communicated the news to Constance, 
he said: 

“I shall take the first train in the morning. 
But before I go it will be necessary to have an 
interview with the Marquis. He is well enough 
to bear ill news — or what will be to him ill news, 
—yet it seems an ungrateful task on my part. 
However, there is no alternative; although it is 
the most painful prospect I have ever contem- 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


285 


plated. Pray for me, my darling, with all your 
heart.” 

“You may depend on it that I shall,” she 
replied. “I only wish I could save you this 
unpleasant task.” 

“Ingestre is not a sensitive man,” said the Earl, 
thoughtfully. “I fancy he will soon be well over 
it; and he escapes easily. Looking at it from 
that point of view, I feel an access of courage. 
And, feeling thus, I believe I will go at once and 
rid myself of the burthen.” 

The Earl found Lord Ingestre chafing under 
the restraint of the sick-room. After a few 
casual remarks, Lord Kingscourt said, abruptly: 

“I am not a diplomatist, Ingestre. There is 
something I have to tell you, which now that 
you are strong enough to hear it, you may as 
well learn at once. Nadand is dead : he lived but 
a couple of hours after the shooting.” 

“What!” cried Lord Ingestre, springing to his 
feet and turning very pale. “Why have I been 
kept in ignorance of this? Surely there was no 
reason why the death of my valet, faithful 
though he may have been, should have been 
kept from me.” 

“There were reasons,” said the Earl, — “grave 
reasons. There are many reasons which you will 
hear in due time. I dislike to have to perform 
this business, Roland ; but it must be done. And 


286 


A LIFE'S LABYRINTH. 


later you will not feel bitterly toward me, what- 
ever may be your sentiments now. Read this, 
and after you have finished I will enlighten you 
further.” 

As Lord Ingestre took the paper from the hand 
of the Earl, he sank back in his chair. Lord 
Kingscourt turned to the window. When the 
Marquis had finished reading the confession he 
buried his face in his hands, remaining thus for 
some time. 

“Kingscourt,” he said at length, “this is terrible; 
but it is the hallucination of a dying man. I am 
the more inclined to this opinion as it is plain 
that the relative of the late Marquis referred to 
in the paper can be no other than myself. Now, 
you know the story is absurd on the face of it, 
and may not that of the murder be equally so? 
Nadand’s wound was in the head: it probably 
had the effect of depriving him of his reason. I 
can not believe he murdered the Marquis, any 
more than I think it worth while utterly to 
deny his accusation with regard to myself. 
The man was mad— simply mad.” 

Then it was that the Earl, taking a seat 
beside Lord Ingestre, related, as corroborative of 
Nadand’s confession concerning the diamonds, 
the conversation overheard by Constance and 
the housekeeper, which the former had related 
to him before the tragedy. 


a life’s labyrinth. 


287 


Lord Ingestre listened in silence, his head 
drooping upon his breast. When the Earl had 
finished his account of the underground advent- 
ure, Lord Ingestre arose and began to walk 
about the room. 

“Kingscourt,” he said, “ there is something 
behind all this. Who is that girl and what was 
her motive? What did she know of the Mount- 
heron tragedy, and why should she have con- 
nected me with that , — even admitting, which I 
will not, "that the story of the diamonds be true ? 
What, I ask you, was her motive? By what 
was she actuated ? What did she hope to gain ? ” 

“By filial love, to rehabilitate a wrecked life,” 
answered the Earl, looking at him intently. 

The Marquis stared a moment, then said : 

“I do not understand you. I confess you are 
an enigma this morning.” Then, once more 
throwing himself in his chair, he said, with 
genuine emotion: “If it be true, Stratford — poor 
Stratford — God knows I would restore you to 
life and honor if I could. But it is too late — 
too late. Alfred, I am a most unhappy man.” 

“It is not too late, Ingestre,” replied the Earl, 
rising and placing his hand on the shoulder of 
Lord Ingestre. 

“What do you mean?” exclaimed the Marquis, 
excitedly. “For God’s sake, Kingscourt, tell me 
what you mean ! ” 


288 


A life’s labyrinth. 


“That she whom you have known as Miss 
Strange is your cousin, Ingestre; and that Lord 
Stratford is alive, and even now in London, 
where I expect to meet him to-morrow.” 

The Marquis leaned back in his chair, his face 
of a deathly pallor. 

“Thank God! ” he murmured, in a husky voice. 
“I am not as deeply dyed a villain as you 
thought, Kingscourt. Now leave me. I must 
be alone.” 

Without a word — for he could not speak, — 
but clasping the hand of the Marquis with a 
pressure that was truly sincere, the Earl arose 
and left the room. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Early on the following morning, after taking 
leave of Constance, who sent a thousand tender 
messages to her father, Lord Kingscourt started 
for London. About ten o’clock Mrs. Ingestre 
sent for Constance, who saw at once, from the 
expression of her face, that something had 
occurred. 

“Sit down, Miss Strange,” she said, in a low, 
sad voice. “I have just heard some very dis- 
agreeable news, and feel that I must have your 
companionship. You are so sympathetic, and I 
can never bear disappointment or sorrow alone. 
I am confronting both this morning.” 

“My sympathy is yours,” replied Constance, 
“whether you choose to confide in me or not. 
Eat perhaps I may be able to render you some 
assistance.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Ingestre, sadly: “you can do 
nothing. Were it not that in every other respect 
my brother-in-law is sane, as I know from his 
conversation on subjects foreign to that which 
has distressed me, I would say that his recent 
accident has turned his head. Yesterday evening 
he first learned of the death of Nadand from 
Lord Kingscourt, and on that seems to hinge 


290 


a life's labyrinth. 


the strange resolve which he communicated to 
me this morning. I can not understand whv the 
death of that poor man should have so affected 
him.” 

“It may be something else,” suggested Con- 
stance, to whom it was not difficult to surmise 
the true cause of Lord Ingestre’s resolution, 
whatever it might have been. 

“No,” replied Mrs. Ingestre. “He said that 
Nadand had undone him, and that he was not 
sorry; after which he disclosed his plans. I fear 
there is something wrong with his brain. Miss 
Strange, the more I think of it, the more I fear it. 
Fancy his leaving England and going out to the 
United States for an indefinite time! That is 
what he is about to do. Meanwhile Mountheron 
is left without a master, and I without a home. 
At my time of life, you know, one does not like 
to change; and I had become so used to being 
here, and to depend on Roland, that it upsets 
me altogether. Besides, I feel that the step is 
ill-advised on his part.” 

“I am very sorry on your account,” said Con- 
stance. “And yet I think the life here must have 
been a lonely one for you, dear Mrs. Ingestre. If 
you could see more company and have more 
diversion, I believe your health would improve.” 

“That may be so,” remarked Mrs. Ingestre. 
“I am not without means, and Roland has 


a life’s labyrinth. 


291 


promised still further to provide for me. Indeed 
one would think, to have heard him this morning, 
that he was contemplating a perpetual absence. 
It is all so strange that I am hoping his resolu- 
tion is but a passing whim, which will vanish 
with the return of the perfect health so habitual 
to him.” 

After some further conversation, Mrs. Ingestre 
proposed a drive, and thus the morning passed. 
To the young girl the afternoon seemed inter- 
minable. A restless night ensued; and as she 
watched -the first faint streaks of dawn in the 
eastern sky, she wondered how it would be possi- 
ble for her to enjoy the hours which must elapse 
before the arrival of the Earl and perhaps — 0 
blessed thought! — her father. The steward was 
closeted with Lord Ingestre nearly all that day. 
Mrs. Ingestre seemed more and more unhappy. All 
through the castle there was an air of uneasiness 
and gloom. 

The ladies dined early ; and after spending some 
time in the chapel, whither Mathews accompanied 
her, Constance went to her own room. She knew 
that a train arrived at ten, and resolved to 
remain up, hoping that Lord Kingscourt would 
come. About eleven she heard the sound of 
wheels, and, throwing up her window, saw a 
fly from the village stop at the side door of the 
castle. Two gentlemen alighted. It was with 


292 


A life’s labyrinth. 


difficulty that she restrained herself from rushing 
downstairs; but her soul had been schooled to 
patience and prudence, and she sat for some time 
longer, waiting, her heart full of hope and expec- 
tation. Ten minutes elapsed. There was a gentle 
knock at the door. She flew to open it. Mathews 
stood outside, her hands trembling, her eyes 
streaming. “Come!” she said, seizing the cold 
hand of the young girl. Without a word, Con- 
stance followed her. When they had reached the 
housekeeper’s sitting-room, the old woman threw 
open the door. Standing near the fireplace, 
opposite the door, with his arms outstretched 
to welcome her, was her father. 

“Father!” she cried, — “ dear father ! ” and sank 
fainting in that fond embrace. 

But youth is strong, and hearts seldom break 
from joy. It was not long before Constance 
was sitting beside her father, her head upon his 
shoulder, his arm around her, while they discussed 
again and again the marvellous events that had 
once more reunited them. 

The Earl had discreetly retired for a time ; but 
on the stroke of midnight he reappeared, fol- 
lowed by Mrs. Mathews, whose agitation was 
so great that she was unable to control her joyful 
tears. 

“It is time for bed,” observed Lord Kingscourt. 
“We must be circumspect to-night. Besides, the 


A life’s labyrinth. 


293 


opening and shutting of doors may alarm the 
servants.” 

“Your mother is at Cliffbourne, my child,” said 
Lord Stratford. “Kingscourt tells me that she 
travelled from London in the train with us, 
though I did not see her.” 

“And how long must it be before she hears 
all?” asked Constance, eagerly. 

“Only until to-morrow,” rejoined the Earl. 
“I saw and spoke with her this afternoon. She 
asked me to request Mrs. Ingestre to allow you 
to go over in the morning. She had intended 
coming to Mountheron, if Roland was very bad ; 
although she dreaded the visit. But as I gave 
a favorable account of him, she decided not to 
do so.” 

“And who will tell her?” inquired Constance. 
“How can I continue the deception any longer? 
Oh, let me tell her, papa ! ” 

“That is what we have decided,” said Lord 
Stratford, in a voice scarcely audible through 
excess of emotion. “It is your right; but, 0 
my darling! guard your feelings well. Be my 
own brave, self - controlled Constance for yet a 
while.” 

“Trust me, papa,” she replied. “God will help 
me to do it well. I shall not be precipitate, — I 
shall not alarm her,— trust me.” 

“I have no fear,” said Lord Stratford. “You 


294 


a life’s labyrinth. 


do all tilings well, my darling ! Now go, dear one ! 
You need repose. It will be best that we do not 
meet again in the morning — at Mountheron. 
Kingscourt will arrange for the rest.” 

After many blessings and caresses, the father 
and daughter separated ; and Constance returned 
to her own room, where she soon found deep and 
dreamless rest. 

Mathews was early astir, but found her young 
mistress ready for departure. She was impatient 
now of every moment that kept her from her 
mother’s side. After taking leave of Mrs. Ingestre, 
who was ill in bed, she had a short interview 
with Lord Kingscourt, who proposed a line ol 
action which she thought it would be well to 
follow. As soon as the carriage was brought 
round, she took her departure, after many tearful 
embraces from Mrs. Mathews, who could not 
bear to see her go, even for a short time. 

As soon as Constance had gone the Earl went 
to Lord Ingestre’s room, where he remained 
some time. Returning to his own apartments, 
he issued thence a few moments later, accom- 
panied by Lord Stratford, and once more sought 
those of Lord Ingestre. What took place at that 
interview was never revealed by either Lord 
Stratford or his companion. A week later Roland 
Ingestre departed for America, from whence he 
never returned. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


On arriving at Cliffbourne, Constance had gone 
at once to her rooms. Felicia was awaiting her, 
saying that Lady Cliffbourne seemed unusually 
depressed that morning, but wished to see her 
as soon as she felt rested. 

“I am not tired,” replied Constance. “I will 
go to her now.” 

“Very well,” said the maid. “She will be 
pleased, I know.” 

With a heart beating so wildly that she feared 
its every throb must be heard, Constance knocked 
at the door. 

“Come in!” said the voice she had learned to 
love so well. 

Lady Cliffbourne was lying on a lounge; she 
looked pale and sad. 

“Do not rise,” said Constance; and she quickly 
crossed the room and fell upon her knees beside 
the couch, to hide her emotion. 

Lady Cliffbourne clasped her hand, kissing her 
on the forehead. 

“Ah, Constance,” she said, “you can not know 
how glad I am to see you once more! You 
seem to embody youth and hope and love, and 
all things good and beautiful. I .shall not lend 

295 


296 


A life’s labyrinth. 


you to any one again. You must stay with me 
always; for I am very, very lonely. Fetch a 
cushion and sit here beside me.” 

Constance obeyed. “I will stay with you, Lady 
ClifTbourne,” she said, simply and naturally; 
although it was with a great effort she preserved 
her self-control. “I wish never to leave you.” 

“And your father?” 

“He is in England, and will remain,” said 
Constance, smiling. 

“In England did you say, dear? Can it be 
that it was he of whom I caught a glimpse 
yesterday? Was he with Lord Kingseourt?” 

“Yes,” replied Constance. “He is at Mount- 
heron.” 

“At Mountheron, child ! ” repeated Lady Cliff- 
bourne. “If I had known it I should not have 
summoned you so soon. And you came so 
sweetly! Constance, you are a dear, unselfish 
girl.” 

“He will be here some time to-day, with Lord 
Kingseourt,” said Constance. “When he comes 
you will see that I have reason to be proud of 
my father.” 

“But he will not let me keep you,” observed 
Lady Cliffbourne. 

“I think he will,” said Constance. “It can be 
so arranged.” 

Lady Cliffbourne made no reply. She closed 


a life’s labyrinth. 


297 


her eyes, and when she opened them Constance 
saw that they were filled with tears. Lifting 
the young girl’s hand, she pressed it close to 
her cheek, saying: 

“My child, after Lord Kingscourt had left me, 
I saw that he had a companion, with whom he 
entered another compartment. He seemed to be 
middle-aged, for his hair was streaked with grey. 
His collar was so close about his throat that I 
could not discern a single feature; and he was 
gone in an instant. But as he came and went, 
almost with the swiftness of thought, across my 
sight, the poise of his head reminded me of one 
long lost, long dead, but never — oh, never for- 
gotten for a single hour!” 

She covered her face with her hands. Con- 
stance, leaning forward, pressed her cheek against 
her mother’s and there were tears on both. After 
a moment Lady Cliffbourne turned toward the 
young girl. Rising from the couch, she said: 

“It was your father, dear Constance,— it must 
have been.” 

“Yes,” was the reply. “I think there can be 
no doubt of that, as he was with Lord Kings- 
court.” 

Lady Cliffbourne now went to a cabinet, and, 
opening a drawer, drew forth a key. 

“Come,” she said, holding out her hand to 
Constance. “I have a secret chamber to which 


298 


a life’s labyrinth. 


I sometimes go. No one lias ever entered it save 
myself, but I am minded to show it to you, for 
there are times when all the floodgates of my 
soul seem deluged with sorrow and remembrance, 
and this is one of them. 0 my child, I crave your 
sympathy, your love! Come, let me show you 
the dearest relics of a happy past.” 

Opening a door which had been hidden by a 
heavy portiere , she led Constance into a small 
octagonal room. It contained a child’s crib, a 
miniature table, with two or three little chairs 
and rockers. Various pretty toys and books were 
strewn about the floor and on the mantel-shelf. 
Opening a closet door, Lady Cliffbourne showed 
her several little frocks and coats, looking as 
though the wearer had but just laid them aside. 

“These were my dear baby daughter’s things,” 
she said. “The bureau drawers are full of her 
clothes. I never could bear to give them away. 
Here are her lovely baby toys, and her books 
with their colored prints ; she was so fond of the 
bright pictures. In this little chair how often I 
have seen her rocking in her pretty, childish 
way ! ” 

Seating herself on the broad window-seat, she 
drew Constance down beside her, seizing her 
hands with a strong pressure. 

“0 my dear, my dear!” she continued, “you 
know — all the world knows my miserable story. 


A life’s labyrinth. 


299 


But none can know or even half suspect the 
bitterness of soul that all these terrible years 
have failed to conquer. And as the time goes 
on, and I can look backward on the days of my 
life even as one gazes into a looking-glass, and 
see the reflection and the consequence of my own 
acts, I call myself a coward and a faithless wife, 
in that I could have endured to see my husband 
go into exile and not follow him, sharing his fate,- 
— a fate so undeserved and terrible. But for me 
to have taken one step at the time would have 
proved his utter ruin. And when, sometimes, I 
come to this room for consolation, I fancy I can 
see my child reproaching me, — the child that God 
in His anger would not permit me to keep or 
cherish.” 

Constance made an effort to speak, but Lady 
Cliff bourne checked her and went on: 

“I have his picture locked away, but I never 
dare to look upon it; it would kill me, I think, 
to see him as he was in our days of peace and 
happiness. Nothing that was his, no souvenir 
he ever gave me, have I kept where I might ever 
look upon it. But, oh! my prayers have never 
been wanting to him. My baby’s little toys and 
frocks and pretty books,— these I have treasured ; 
and often, when my heart has been strained to 
breaking, I come here and weep till I can weep 
no more. Wait!” she continued, releasing Con- 


300 


A life’s labyrinth. 


stance and going toward the bureau. “Let me 
show you something.” In a moment she returned, 
holding in her hand a little shoe. “See!” she 
said, kissing it passionately again and again. 
“Here is the shape of her tiny foot; there the 
toe is worn from dragging it along the floor, as 
babies do. It is the very dearest, sweetest thing 
I have of hers; and I have only one. But she — 
my baby — she is dead, and her father, long, 
long ago ! ” 

Constance could refrain no longer, — the moment 
had come. Springing to her feet, she drew from 
her bosom the mate of that little shoe, which she 
had carried there since the day Mathews had 
given it to her keeping. 

“And I — I have the other shoe!” she cried, 
falling on her knees before Lady Cliffbourne and 
gently clasping her waist. “It was mine, — j 
wore it once. I am your Constance — your own 
Constance, — mother , my darling mother!” 

“Oh, she is mad!” cried Lady Cliffbourne, 
lifting her tenderly. “She is mad, poor girl! I 
have unhinged her mind with the unreason of 
my own. Constance, — yes, Constance dear ! ” she 
added soothingly, lifting her up. “I will be 
your mother, sweet one! and you shall be my 
daughter.” 

“Mother! mother! mother!” pleaded Con- 
stance, covering the pale face with kisses. “I 


a life’s labyrinth. 


301 


am your own, your very own, — your little 
Constance. Soon you shall know all. lie is 
alive and well; he will soon be here — ” 

“He is here,” said the voice of Lord Kingscourt, 
as, lifting the portiere , he motioned to some one 
behind him. 

Constance rushed forward; while Lady Cliff- 
bourne, slowly turning to the doorway, uttered 
a low cry, and would have fallen had it not been 
for the clasp of the strong, loving arms that 
quickly folded her in a long, silent embrace. 

“Such a meeting is too sacred for other eyes,” 
murmured Lord Kingscourt, quietly dropping the 
curtain as he passed from the room, leaving them 
to their newfound happiness — husband and wife, 
— father, mother, and daughter. 

A year and a half passes quickly when hearts 
are united and happy. The nine days’ wonder 
of Lord Stratford’s romantic story has long since 
run its course. Society has ceased to crane its neck 
to see and admire and rave about and comment 
upon the beautiful and heroic Lady Constance 
Stratford, who has cared so little for its admi- 
ration and mingled so little in its pleasures. 

It is Christmas — a white Christmas — at 
Mountheron, where there is to be a Midnight 
Mass preceded by a wedding. The interior 
chapel, which was formerly a picture-gallery, 


302 


A life’s labyrinth. 


has been converted into a beautiful oratory, as 
a thanksgiving offering, by Lord and Lady Strat- 
ford. It has been frescoed and adorned by means 
of a sum realized for that purpose from the sale 
of some diamonds found, after great difficulty, in 
the ruins of the old chapel of Mountheron. 

To-night the altar is a blaze of light; flowers 
are everywhere, the chancel a mass of living 
green. On one side of the aisle the family servants 
are gathered, — Mathews at their head, her new 
black satin dress the admiration of her humbler 
companions. On the other, there are many vacant 
seats, for but few guests have been bidden to the 
ceremony. There is Mrs. Ingestre, now chatelaine 
of Cliff bourne; and beside her Lady Markham, 
who still makes it her abode when not occupied 
pi visiting about from house to house in the 
county; for, although somewhat subdued, she is 
still keen for gossip and eager in suspicion. From 
her own account, repeated with additions and 
sundry changes at every temporary stopping- 
place where she has elected to linger, she was the 
first to discover the identity of Lady Constance, 
whom she knew at once to be ‘other than she 
represented herself to Lady Alicia.’ Indeed, she 
even feels herself entitled to the larger portion of 
any credit which may be due for. the final denoue- 
ment. Constance has long ago forgiven her, and 
strives to conquer any natural aversion which 


A life’s labyrinth. 


303 


may exist in her mind against her by being par- 
ticularly kind to the meddlesome but lonely 
woman. There are also present Bertin Rollis 
and Captain Wilbraham, both of whom declare 
the Earl to be the most fortunate man in Eng- 
land. These are the only guests. 

And now there is a little stir in the background, 
and a moment later the bride walks slowly up 
the aisle, leaning on her father’s arm, clad in white 
from head to foot, — the filmy veil which envelops 
her half concealing, half disclosing the beauty of 
her round, softly flushed cheek; her wondrous 
eyes almost hidden by their downcast lids. They 
are followed by Lady Stratford and Lord Kings- 
court. Then Father Pittock, having previously 
obtained the needed dispensation, emerges from 
the vestry ; the pair approach the altar rail, and 
in a few moments are made one. After a brief 
and impressive silence, the priest kneels and offers 
a beautiful prayer for the newly - married ; and 
then Lord Stratford leaves his seat beside his 
wife, followed by Rollis and Wilbraham. 

The clock is on the stroke of midnight. The 
priest, in sacred vestments, returns to the altar, 
and the first Mass of Christmas begins. Soon the 
organ, played by Lord Stratford, pours forth a 
noble voluntary, taken up by violins in the 
skilful hands of Rollis and Captain Wilbraham. 
Anon it changes to the slow, solemn, fascinating 


304 


a life’s labyrinth. 


air of an old Pastores , and the three voices blend 
in unity; all in the chapel joining in the Gloria — 
one well known and always sung on Christmas 
Day in Cornwall. Again a pause, and at the 
Offertory the prayerful silence is broken by the 
voice of Lord Stratford and his daughter in the 
Venite Adoremus , all again taking part in the 
jubilant chorus. At the communion the bride and 
groom, with Lord and Lady Stratford, approach * 
the Holy Table, followed by Rollis, Wilbraham, 
and the greater part of the congregation. 

At length the service is ended, the prayers of 
Thanksgiving said, and the party pass from the 
chapel into the hall, where kisses and congratu- 
lations are long and loud. Without, on every 
craggy height great fires are burning; while the 
waits are jubilant with carols below,— old- 
fashioned English Christmas carols that fill 
the air with their quaint and touching melody. 
Never was fairer bride than she who, lifting the 
curtain of the broad window, looks out into 
the courtyard, illuminated by countless torches in 
the hands of the singers ; never nobler bridegroom 
than he who, standing beside her, lifts her small 
hand to his lips. 

“ Constance, mine at last!” he murmurs. But 
she is silent. 

The snow has ceased falling. “The stars shine 
out, and the night is holy.” 



H 9 86 





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